


Try Hard

by AsbestosMouth



Series: Mayflower [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All of the shipping all of the time, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, British Comedy, F/M, Gen, Humor, I still say 2008 is modern, M/M, Men in shorts alert, Ramsay is his own warning, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:38:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 72,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne is a truly excellent rugby coach. Really, she's that great. Just that King's Landing, the team who have just employed her, haven't quite got around to telling their current coach that he is sacked. When that current coach is a) drunk and b) Jaime Lannister, only the best player of his generation and Brienne's teenage pin-up, things get awkward. Not quite as awkward when she keeps being stared at by Tormund, the massively bearded red-haired fireman who happens to play for King's Landing.  Especially when he makes her Feel Things. But then so does Jaime, even if he is a dickhead.</p><p>Throw in an entire rugby team of fourteen good men plus Ramsay Bolton - all with issues of their own - a sponsor with a fetish for sailors, Tyrion owning a pub and being dodgy, and the Ever Lurking Terror of Varys, and it's all a bit, as Davos always says, effing mad, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love rugby. I'm Welsh - we get executed for not liking it. Oddly enough I know more about the NFL (go Bengals), but the blood still sings and the heart still pounds. Mae hen wlad fy nhadau, etc.etc. Beautiful game, and if you have never seen it, I recommend having a look. When played well, it is the most exciting and lovely thing in the entire world (apart from Tormund's beard). Obviously Health and Safety in King's Landing doesn't mind Tormund having a beard. Probably under the cultural law, given he is Wilding. 
> 
> S604 has really set the shipping cats amongst the metaphorical pigeons, hasn't it? This fic started, and then it took an 'oh shit' moment, and then Tormund happened, and it's all for the best. This is not so much of a love triangle as a sex ouroborus.
> 
> If anyone has any questions about rugby, I'll be happy to reply.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Theon Greyjoy slurs after his fifth pint, eyes focussing on nothing in particular, “girls playing rugby is fucking sexy. Who knows what they do in the scrum. All them hands all over the place-” He grins to himself, sharp angles and a gap between his front teeth, expression veering towards the lascivious

  
“You know,” Oberyn replies, archly, and he never seems to get as drunk as the rest of them. Too much drinking as a youth in some very dodgy parts of Dorne means he has a liver like iron. He drinks like a man, not like Theon, who is just a little boy playing grown-up. “Boys playing rugby is sexy. Who knows what they do in the scrum. Hands all over the place.”

Greyjoy turns red, grumbles, goes to find some more crisps. The selection of such at _The Mayflower_ goes above and beyond all human comprehension. There are flavours that no right-minded soul would touch with someone else’s ten foot bargepole, let alone their own. Tyrion likes foisting them upon drunks, just to see what happens.

“Totally closeted,” he says to himself. No one can talk that much about the female anatomy without wishing to conceal something.

“Who is?” Tyrion lurks below eye level, and sometimes is a ninja. Sometimes he appears out of nowhere, like some crazed martial artist from Braavos, _sans_ pointy weaponry and an urge to ritually slaughter.

“Theon.”

“Totally.”

“ Even if he seems obsessed with young women playing rugby at the moment. The new coach inflames his senses.”

“Ah, the Tarth woman?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Have you seen the Tarth woman?” Tyrion idly fiddles with his cuffs, unbuttoning them, rolling the fabric over his broad lower arms. Oberyn would sleep with him, but has not developed that much of a death wish; Shae can be a jealous and demanding lover, which his little Imp friend appreciates. It is entirely pleasant seeing Tyrion happy.

“No. Should I?”

“Knowing you, you’d shag her. You shag anything with a pulse, and even then you’re not picky.”

“Beauty can be found in all, little Imp.” Even Imps with mismatched eyes and scarred faces.

“You’ll change your opinion. Fucking awesome legs though, could snap a man in two.”

“Fascinating-”

“You’re thinking of shagging her, aren’t you?”

“Amazons, Tyrion, are delightful.”

 

* * *

 

She is stared at as she enters _The Mayflower_ , that ancient building tucked deep in the heart of Flea Bottom where Tyrion Lannister makes far too much money for him just to be selling beer. Brienne is used to the looks, the sneering. She showered at the gym, and is still vaguely damp about the hair, make up free as ever, and in her usual post-workout clothing of hoodie and leggings. Perhaps others may have dressed up, made an effort. Not her, though. Put a dress on a pig, and it is still a pig, she thinks. No point wasting money on buying a dress when she looks far less hideous and feels more comfortable in casual.

A man, dark-eyed and smiling, overly sensual, looks her up and down with an oddly appreciative gaze.

“What’d you like?” Two people behind the bar; a young woman with glossy dark hair and tanned skin suggesting Essosi heritage, and a sensible looking man in his mid forties with naval tattoos and a beard, sporting a King’s Landing rugby shirt.

“Diet bitter lemon, no ice, please.” A treat. Brienne treats her body as a temple.

“Nice seeing a new face ‘round here.” He seems friendly, and she notices his hand with an inward wince.

“Brienne, I’ve just moved from the Sapphire Isle.”

“Ah,” and he grins and is just like her Dad in a moment. It makes her feel a little more at home. “Are you the young lady who is here to coach rugby? Really good to meet you, I’m Davos, one of the organisers. We could do with someone to keep the buggers in line.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting the sponsor here, a Mr. Baratheon?”

“Stannis is running late, he’s got tied up at work. No rest for the wicked.” Her blankness leads him to explain more. “He’s a lawyer, when he’s not obsessed over rugby.”

“Oh, right.”

“But, we’ve got some of the players in. Obviously us being casual rather than professional, even if Stannis wants to move in that direction and hired you, means you get all sorts. Oberyn, he’s the dark bloke, good winger. Theon is the skinny one drinking Guinness, centre, he’s from Pyke. Hard as nails, even if you’d not think it. The times I’ve seen him kicked in the balls and not flinch- Anyway, Tyrion, who’s the other sponsor, is the dwarf.”

“Little person,” she corrects, without meaning to.

“He calls himself dwarf, says he’s trying to reclaim it like the gays are getting back ‘queer.’” A shrug, and there is no malice in any part of this nice man. “Redhead is Robb, the sulky one is Jon, fly-half, good captain, the fat one is Sam. They’re all in university but prefer to play for us than the UKL team.” The names blend as he goes on about Beric, and Ramsay, and Sandor, and then onwards to Edd, who is apparently Dolorous, and-

“By the Seven, Davos, she’ll not remember any of them.” The girl behind the bar shakes her head, grinning. “I’m Shae, Tyrion’s missus.” Her accent is foreign, and she really is very pretty indeed. Brienne could feel jealous, but she is not that sort of woman. Other people are beautiful. Brienne is just Brienne, and mostly at peace with her looks.

“Beer,” someone calls. “It’s an emergency.”

Emergency Beer Man is golden, and beautiful, and has the arrogant expression of someone who knows exactly what their looks do to approximately sixty five percent of the population of Westeros.

“Why’s it an emergency, Jaime?” Shae laughs, pours an Arbor Golden Rose from the tap, slides it to the blond.

“Because I ran out of beer,” he says. “Emergency.” He swigs at the drink like a man dying from dehydration, a single-minded swallowing that suggests something more than minor alcoholism.

“Oh,” Davos leans in, softer now. He smells of hops, and a light cologne that somehow seems a little bit too classy. “That’s Jaime.”

“Jaime?”

“The other coach, sort of. He’s the reason you’re here.”

 

* * *

 

Stannis Baratheon arrives eventually, forty minutes after they were due to start, in time to see Theon Greyjoy get punched.

Which is reassuringly normal. He gets punched by strangers quite often.

The puncher is not usually six feet plus of woman with spectacular legs and an unfortunate face that could send horses into a panicky stampede.

“Davos?” The barman finds the whisky and administers. Tyrion is cackling, hyena-like, sitting on the bar in his usual position. The others observe with an excited interest; they enjoy seeing Greyjoy dragged down a few pegs, given he has tried to seduce the majority of their partners, although Oberyn is always willing to share. The only reason Bronn gets away with having his girlfriend unmolested is because she is Theon’s sister.

“Theon got handsy.”

“I told you not to allow him to drink so much, Davos.” The accusation lingers.

“He seems to have others buying his pints. Sorry, Stannis, I’ll cut them off if needed.”

Davos is sexy, and Stannis internally swears. He wants to lick every inch of those intricate naval tattooes, then every inch of the barman, and then take every inch he can get. Straight, of course. A man with so many bloody sons must be. But then so is Stannis. Mostly. But Davos’ tattoos, and beard, and the way he smokes a pipe, can do things to the most heterosexual and red-blooded of men.

“Who is that?” Indicating the blonde who is now mopping the blood off Theon’s mashed lips with a dampened serviette, explaining, at length, in a soft and lecturing tone, why women have bodily autonomy, why he should respect them, and really, trying to smack her arse just invites someone giving him a slap.

“Brienne.” There is amusement in the rough voice, and Stannis idly wonders whether Davos would tie him up and do terrible, nefarious, possibly illegal things with his mouth.

Then it sinks in.

“Gods, that is our new coach?”

He likes her instantly. Everyone wants to punch Theon, but no one who knows him dares since Ramsay would have their face off with his teeth. Bolton is hung up on the little shit, for no reason at all. Sometimes Stannis dreams of leaving them in a locked room, and seeing what happens. Sex or murder, probably both, at the same time. Stannis finds the thought amusing. That is about as far as his sense of humour extends.

“Yep. And you should have a word with Jaime about it, since you’ve not told him he’s being sidelined. Last seen heading towards the loo, looking green about the gills, mate.”

Davos was in the navy. Sailors can do intricate knots, and possibly be versed in the beautiful art of Japanese rope bondage. Davos might even still have his uniform.

Stannis orders himself not to get an erection. Surprisingly, his request is acknowledged and understood.

 

* * *

 

“Miss Tarth.”

“Mr. Baratheon.”

They shake hands. Nice, firm grip from Stannis, and Brienne responds with her own powerful squeeze that sends his eyebrow flickering.

“A pleasure. Please try not to punch Greyjoy; unfortunately he is quite a talented centre, and we need his kicking ability. Jon’s groin is particularly delicate this season.”

She blinks, processes admirably, caught between wondering how Jon - who she has not yet met - hurt his groin, and the politics of rugby teams.

“He did try and molest me, Mr. Baratheon.”

“I should have him neutered,” mutters the man, rather angrily. “Really, I hope that you will teach him to focus on the game, rather than his ridiculous affinity towards having intercourse with every female that has a pulse.”

“Um?”

“While I wish to welcome you first, Miss Tarth, I am also aware that you are a seasoned professional. You must be properly informed of why I insisted upon you joining us.” He takes a sip of whisky, and she realises that Stannis is a jaw grinder. Brienne flicks through her list of therapist friends. Bruxism can be awful if left untreated. He is quite handsome, if granite and humourless about the jawline.

“Lannister, who you have briefly met and is probably passed out in a puddle of his own urine somewhere, is a drunk. Excellent coach, even better player, but since he lost his hand-”

“That’s Jaime Lannister?” Seven above and all of the Stranger’s tiny little imps!

“Is there any other?” Of course. The poster boy of Westerosi rugby. The Lion of Castamere. It is documented what happened when Gregor Clegane stamped on his wrist and smashed Lannister’s arm to pieces during the final game of the IBB Seven Kingdoms Tourney two years previously, ending his career. Only having one hand is not conducive for playing rugby at any level, let alone international.

“I refuse to allow such displays of selfish destruction bring down my team.” Stannis is ruthless; she can see it in his expression. He is the sort of single-minded and hard-nosed bastard that can either drive everyone to wanting to jump off various bridges, or to something that glitters high and beautiful and triumphant. “I refuse to allow that man to destroy everything that I am building. My players are unusual, but have talent. They are perhaps not the choice of the larger, professional teams, but they are mine. I will do what is right by my men, Miss Tarth, and that right is providing an excellent coach. One who is also unusual in the world of rugby. You are here on your merits, but also because I think you are the sort of person who can cope admirably with the different.”

“You have my word I will do my utmost. I swear.”

“You seem a woman of honour, Miss Tarth. I was lucky enough to train as a youth under your father. Selwyn was an excellent coach.”

“Position?”

He flushes slightly.

“Hooker.”

Brienne manages not to spit bitter lemon all over him.

 

* * *

 

“I like her.” Tyrion polishes glasses. He doesn’t have to, but he likes getting Shae to bend over and get them out of the dishwasher. She insists on these tiny skirts that show acres of lovely Lorathi-toned thigh. Heels. Sometimes Tyrion has to drag her into the cellar and just do things that send their heads spinning, and are possibly illegal in The Reach.

Everything fun is illegal in The Reach. Boring place.

“Hmm?”

“Brienne. She’s going to piss everyone off, and it will be beautiful.”

“Oh. Brienne.”

“Stop staring at Stannis, Dav.” He kicks out with an expensive hand-made shoe, catching his favourite barman on the elbow.

“I like watching his expression when he gets towards critical. He’s gone purple.” Davos grins, easily. “He’s hilarious and has no idea.” There is a warmth to his tone, though, since he and the lawyer get on like a house on fire most of the time. Tyrion knows that there is a little more than friendship, for Davos at least, and his favourite and only barman has worse taste in men than Tormund has in women. Stannis Baratheon? Really?

“D’you think his heart will stand the stress of having to tell my dearest brother he’s sacked?”

Davos pauses. “Poor Jaime.”

“Poor nothing. It’s his fault he’s an alcoholic.”

“He lost his hand, Tyrion. It’s a massive thing.”

The dwarf gives his barman a strangely measured look, opens his mouth as if to say something - and no one knows about Jaime and Cersei outside of the immediate family, though Oberyn is the sort to have an inkling - before he sees Shae bend over again and forgets.

Tyrion’s mind is like a Dornish railway; one track and filthy.

“Maybe Brienne’ll whip Jaime into shape? He is bloody amazing at all this when he’s sober.”

“Whips?” Tyrion perks.

“Beric’ll lend you one, I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

“Jaime?”

They voluntold Oberyn to go and find Lannister since the Dornishman is entirely unshockable. Intelligence suggests he has barricaded himself in the disabled toilet.

“What?”

“Are you alive in there?”

“No. I’m dead. This is my ghost.” A pause. “WooooOOooooooh.”

“Foolish boy. Come, I have found you a new and exciting beer.”

“...what beer?”

“It is Dornish.”

“Dornes can’t make beer. Wine, yes, and sometimes an alright cider, but your beer tastes like you take a piss in a bath and then bottle it.”

If Jaime hopes for a reaction, he does not receive the one expected. There is a reason that Oberyn is sent on these sorts of important missions.

“Then come and drink my piss from my bathwater, pretty boy.”

“...fuck you, Oberyn.”

The door unlocks.

 

* * *

 

“Lannister.”

“Baratheon.”

Jaime is beautiful. Always has been. Always will be, even without his right hand and that scarred stump ending at his wrist.

Brienne, when she hit puberty like a hammer to a plate of jelly, had a ridiculously glamorous poster of him on her wall. Jaime Lannister, in his white Crownlands rugby strip, in full flow; hair flying, a curious and triumphant smirk across his gorgeous face. They won the Grand Slam that year, what, ten or twelve years before, and it was all his doing. The greatest player of his generation, possibly of all time. Other girls had pop stars, or gorgeous Essosi and Westerosi actors. Ponies. The young Brienne adhered to men weighing over thirteen stone, with muscles, and shoulders, and thighs. The sorts of men who could take her down and wrestle, possibly covered in mud. The sort that sometimes she stared at and wished, when she was young and confused and driven mad by herself, that she wanted to be.

Her flowering was a strange and oddly masculine place. No pretty boys in eyeliner, no androgyny - apart from herself, obviously. Her puberty was driven by rugby, sport, and being just as good as the boys who taunted her for her face and height. And lack of tits. Always lack of tits.

“This is Miss Tarth.”

“The woman part is a surprise. I just thought you were a really unfortunate bloke.” Slurring, just a little, but enough.

Her face turns pinker than she’d like, and the prickling heat of being fifteen and mocked by gorgeous rugby-playing boys who seemed personally upset she wasn’t pretty or delicate or girly, rises. Lannister has, inadvertently or not, stabbed her straight in that soft fleshy and unfortunately tender core she calls her heart.

“Jaime-” hisses Stannis, and that jaw grinds further.

“Didn’t your Mummy tell you to always say the truth, Stannis? I thought you liked the truth.”

“You are drunk.”

“And you are a prick, but,” and he grins, sloppily, “in the morning I shall be mostly sober.”

“Stop stealing quotations from dead Hands of the King!”

He laughs, and is unfairly lovely even when drunk, pouring half the bottle of microbrewed Dornish beer down his throat.

Brienne hates him. She hates that she has a visceral reaction to someone so awful, just because he is ridiculously handsome, talented, worshipped. He is a god. He is the most spectacular man in Westeros. He is a horrible drunk, with a mean streak, who is obviously wishing to self-destruct in the most spectacular of ways, not caring if he takes others out in the resulting explosion.

However, the nuclear meltdown comes from another direction.

“I have had it up to here with you!” Stannis stands, hands fists and entire body shudderingly tense, and he is almost as tall as Jaime. “You’re out! You are fired! You are never setting foot in my team ever again. Your career is over, you are through! I refuse to have you polluting my side. You are history, Lannister!”

“And who are you going to get to coach this pile of shit?” Another of those laughs, a dangerous edge somewhere that shrieks like nails over chalkboards. “Like you’ll get someone good, Stannis.”

“You’re looking at your replacement.”

“What? The wench?” His laughter reaches hysterical levels.

She breaks, stands, and his realisation that she has two inches on him is smugly pleasing.

“My name,” and her voice is low and angry and mostly controlled. “Is Brienne.”

 

* * *

 

Ramsay stalks past, considers smacking Theon on the arse because those jeans are really tight and he is only human, and settles on a barstool.

Everyone thinks he is weird, and dangerous, and probably a psycho. He was sent off three times last season for biting. Once wasn’t even the opposition, and he ended up attached to Dolorous Edd like a lamprey. Rumour is that Ramsay possibly has locking jaws. Edd didn’t seem surprised that it happened to him.

Everything happens to Dolorous Edd.

The second time was Loras Tyrell, and Ramsay drank a whole bottle of mouthwash in horror. It got him so hammered he was sick all over Edd. Again.

“Usual, Bolton?”

Davos doesn’t take his shit. The barman is a sort of father figure to a lot of the team, but he doesn’t tolerate any of Ramsay’s nonsense. Not after the unfortunate incident with someone who dared grope Theon, a pool cue, a bottle of brandy, and a lighter. He got banned for a month, and a really good black eye courtesy of Sandor Clegane, who acts as bouncer when things become a little rough.

One diet Coke.

Drinking dulls the senses. He needs to be alert to others going near his property.

Theon looks entirely fuckable.

Theon always looks entirely fuckable.

Sometimes he thinks about kidnapping him and keeping him in a little sex dungeon somewhere. Not too tasteless; sex swing, medical equipment, some sort of wall-based bondage device. The usual. Roose would give him the cash, probably would recommend a supplier for the equipment. Ramsay, even if he dresses like a gay leather convention, has a huge collection of Doc Marten boots, and likes vintage punk t-shirts, is loaded. Or at least his Dad is.

“Alright?” someone asks.

Beric is about ten feet tall, and has shoulders like a bull. He seems entirely unkillable. Thoros, the team’s doctor, says things about broken necks and death every so often, but up Dondarrion gets, a bit more battered, a bit more concussed, and yet still clinging on to a life that really beats the shit out of him. He was discharged from the Army for freaking people out after he got blown up by a random UED and walked away swearing his bag off.

“Who hit Theon?”

“New coach. She’s immense.”

“She?”

He nods at a shockingly ugly but insanely well built blonde woman who is having a slanging match with Jaime Fucking Lannister. Amazing muscle definition along her freckled forearms. Ramsay knows he could totally take her in a fight. She looks too sensible to fight dirty.

“I will avenge my Greyjoy.”

“Little twat smacked her on the bum, Ramsay.” Mild and zen, as always. If Beric were more laid back he’d be watching the world swim by from a comfortable horizontal position. Probably with fluffy pillows.

“I will allow her to live this day.”

“Good lad.” A massive hand ruffles his hair, then an arm loops across Ramsay’s shoulders companionably. “‘Nother Coke?”

He likes Beric, who is cool enough to enjoy Ramsay for what he is. Outside of the pub they are playmates in a most interesting way. When he is Lord of All, and the others beg before him, Beric will be his Hand.

 

* * *

 

“Um, sorry to disturb, Mr. Baratheon, but-”

He has never visited _The Mayflower_ before, because Willas Tyrell is more at home in upmarket wine bars, or elegant restaurants. Having been exposed to such things at such a young age, it is difficult for him to break the habit of his, or his sister’s, lifetime. Margaery would have his hide if he went anywhere charging less than twenty five dragons for a bottle of beaujolais. This is the sort of pub that doesn’t name the wines; you have red, or white. Rose isn’t even an option.

“Yes, Mr. Tyrell?”

They are both partners in the same firm, yet Willas always defers to Stannis. Everyone else does, too. He exudes Authority.

“I’m sorry, those files that you mentioned were corrupted and I couldn’t get through to you, so I thought I should come and ask, sorry, sorry to interrrupt. Sorry.”

He flushes, glances away, and is very aware of being stared at by several very large men.

“Sorry,” he adds, just for good measure.

This is Enemy Territory. His little brother plays for their local team back home, and was rather badly mauled by the King’s Landing fullback last season. His tie is the delicate rose-pink and dark purple of Highgarden, because Margaery bought it for him, and Willas, who prefers sensible aran knit jumpers and smart slacks, isn’t very good with dressing up. Sometimes he feels like a toddler wearing his father’s suits. Not that Mace wears suits. Mace wears rugby shirts and trainers most of the time.

“Davos,” Stannis calls, “bring a port and lemon for Mr. Tyrell, would you?”

The man at the bar, who is possibly edging into silver fox territory, if silver foxes were tattooed, bearded, and decidedly working-class, grabs a glass.

“Sit.” He immediately does what Baratheon orders, tucking himself neatly onto a stool, resting his cane against the wall. The man seems to be intently listening to two blond people, one of whom may be female, arguing viciously over the finer points of rugby coaching. The male seems very drunk. The blond(e?) has incredible legs, and the sort of thighs that are normally found on the larger breed of winger. The sort that come from the Summer Isles and do that war dance before each game.

“For you,” murmurs a voice in his ear, like the vocal embodiment of chocolate and velvet, and his drink is placed before him by possibly the most sexy man ever to grace any pub anywhere, ever.

Willas is susceptible to handsome men with accents. Not that he ever acts upon his daydreams, not since Grandmother would go absolutely mad if her darling favourite touched anything apart from some poor high society girl with good hips for popping out many Willas-fathered sprogs. Fear of Olenna explains many of Willas’ actions. It means he never gets to have sex with handsome men with accents, and that is a terrible thing.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Such bone structure.”

“Um. Yes. I have bones?”

The grin is insatiable, and Willas finds his own mouth tugging into a small, unwilling, smile.

“Would you like another, sweet boy, of approximately eight inches?”

The port and lemon goes everywhere.

“Oberyn,” Mr. Baratheon sighs. “Stop leching on my workforce, for the love of the Seven, and go and get a cloth.”

 

* * *

 

“So Ygritte says that her and Jeyne are going out with Gilly, Sam?”

“They’re going to go and see a film, I think. The new one with the woman in the big pants?”

“Why can’t we go and see a film?”

“We’re not girls, we don’t go and see rom-coms.”

“Why not? I like rom-coms?”

“Sam, you’re a girl.”

“I’m not!”

“Are, too! With those boobs-”

“Oi, you’re just jealous because they’re bigger than Jeyne’s."

“Hey, I’m your cousin, why do you always protect Sam? I’ve got better hair.

“Jon has the best hair.”

“My hair is epic. Jon’s is boring. Red hair is the best hair."

“Well, we have to agree with that, really, don’t we?”

“Yeah. Bugger. Damn you, Robb.”

“We all agree then as I have the best hair as I’m a redhead, and since you are going out with redheads, you must fancy my hair?”

“I don’t fancy your hair. It’s stupid, and not long. Gilly’s hair is all long and flowy.”

“Ygritte is going to shave the sides of hers, she saw this painting in Art History and wants to go full Wildling.”

“...is she awesome in bed?”

“You have no idea, Robb. No idea whatsoever.”

 

* * *

 

Jaime wants to hit her.

She is infuriating.

And she is taller than him. Bitch.

And she has the prettiest blue eyes.

He is so drunk.

She’s not that ugly when he’s drunk. Rose tinted spectacles for the win!

No tits though.

Cersei has awesome tits.

Shit.

His expression changes, he feels it as his muscles twitch, and Brienne pauses in her rant about how strength training should be fully available to all, not just concentrated on the members of the team who need power, and how his cardio is all wrong, and how some of the team should be on diets, and-.

“Fuck this,” he says, teeth glinting.

Passing out comes as something as a blessing. It stops him thinking of his bitch sister, who he loves, just for a little while longer.

* * *

 

Tormund stares at the passed out Lannister, and shrugs.

“Get him upstairs, aye, bossman?”

“Yes.” Tyrion holds a jug of cold water, obviously wondering whether to throw it over Jaime or force his head into the vessel and drown him out of pity. The big Wildling, and he’s massive, scoops Lannister up easily enough. He’s used to it. Always him, Beric, or Sandor deal with the bodily effects of Jaime’s wee drinking problem. He and his front row bros got this.

“Who’s the girl?” he asks, taking a swig of his point as if he’s not balancing a whole man on one shoulder with practiced ease. Jaime flops about like a fish, quietly making snoring noises.

“Your new coach.”

“I can tackle her? Fanfuckingbrilliant! Looking forward to getting to do that.” From a distance, from the rear, she looks just his type.

“Your taste in women is appalling, Tor.” Giantsbane always goes for women who may be able to beat him at close range fighting. He likes muscles, and the ability to possibly strangle large angry mammals with bare hands. He is a large man, and he needs a large mate to compliment his lumberjack-style masculinity. The redhead likes flannel shirts and cargo trousers, big boots. Someone called him a hipster once, and he spent the rest of the week giggling; hipsters do not tend to be firemen. Tormund is the one they send in if the battering rams don’t work.

“You can keep your tiny wee things that break if you turn wrong in bed. Robust is what you’re wanting. Strong and tall and good for breeding lots of little warriors, you see? She’s a fine woman.” He catches her eye, grins broadly, and-

Stranger, she is bloody gorgeous. Those eyes. Those shoulders. The ugly/sexy thing she has going on. He doesn’t know whether to fight, or mate, or both, at the same time. For a moment it seems as if time slows, and the entire world is concentrated in that woman who blinks confusedly at him. Her broken nose is possibly the most erotic thing that Tor has seen since he discovered women’s wrestling.

“Stop staring,” Tyrion says.

“Am not.” He is.

“Are too. Possibly salivating there.” Definitely is.

“Think if I stole her and ran north of the Wall I can claim her in the old Wildling tradition?”

“Tormund, this is 2008. She’ll get a restraining order on you. Or kick you in the bollocks with impunity. Probably both.”

“Well fuck.” Sadly.

He drags Jaime upstairs, deposits him in the usual position where he will not inhale his own vomit, and wanders off to find his front row bros.

 

* * *

 

“Bro.” Tormund nods.

“Bro.” Beric returns the nod.

Brofist.

“Where’s Sandor?”

“Girlfriend.” Meaningfully.

“Redhead though. Good lad.”

Beric snorts. “She’s tall, got that going for her.” Sansa is too pretty for Tormund. She is delicate and breedy, and has beautiful hair that would get all knotted and gnarled up at Hardhome. Beric understands. He has his own tastes. The front row bros are all sorts of fucked up to the others. Sandor is a wreck, facially and emotionally. Tormund has his Wildling thing and deflects everything with humour. Beric and his insane private life which involves too much Ramsay. “Not muscular enough.”

“He likes ‘em little, don’t he?”

“Mmm.”

“Speakin’ of muscles and little, how’s Ramsay?”

Beric shrugs. “All over fucking Greyjoy like syphillis.”

“Probably got it, knowing Theon. Right whore.” He punches Beric, an odd sympathy. The bros share a lot. Even Sandor opens up, a little, though the rest of him is directed like some lazer guided missile at Robb Stark’s hot sister. They know about what happened to his face. Beric and Tormund gang up on Gregor. Bro justice.

“Huge cock.”

“Isn’t the size, ‘tis how you wield it. Though I’m fucking massive, man, obviously. Ramsay a size queen?”

“Fuck knows. Want to ask him yourself?”

“Nope, rather have me balls still attached. Weird little cunt.”

“He’s alright.”

“You just want to fuck him since you are also a weird cunt.” Smirking.

“You know it’s not like that, Tor. Just, y’know. Similar interests. Got to look out for a brother, yeah?”

“Bastard BDSM crowd.”

“Don’t knock it til you try it.”

“You’re not coming near me with whips.”

“Nah, it’d be you doing the whipping.” Idly, as if this is a normal and everyday conversation between two extremely large and well-muscled men who happen to play next to each other in a rugby team. Friends. They are, after all. Before this and after this.

Tormund weighs it up, evenly, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re good. Got me eye on something else.”

“Yeah?”

“Brienne.” The name pours from Tormund’s mouth like honey, a strange reverence to his tone.

“Love at first sight, huh?”

“She’s perfect. Brave, and big, and so frigging strong. I want to wrestle her and take her back north as a prize.”

“She’ll get a restraining order on you.”

“Aye, Tyrion said.”

He nudges Tormund in the ribs. “Can always try wooing aforementioned She-Hulk?”

“Like?”

“Present or some shit, whatever women like.” Not that Beric does that sort of thing. He has the emotional range of a toad.

Tor’s eyes widen and he grins behind his magnificent beard. Several girls cross their legs thoughtfully. “Good woman like that needs something like her.”

“Bulldog puppies are expensive.”

“Tosser.”

“Twat.”

“Where do you go and buy weapons these days?”

“...what sort of weapon?”

“Flail. Morningstar. Big fuck-off kind of Wildling sword.”

“Tor, that’s romantic for you. Ask Bronn?”

“Aye. I’d give her me family sword, but Mum would slaughter me.”

“You are weird.”

“Says the man who likes being whipped by psychopaths. She’s fucking lovely,” he sighs, staring at Brienne as he takes another sup of ale. Again her eye catches Tor’s, again she turns very red and turns back to Stannis Baratheon who is quietly talking at a young man who keeps looking at Oberyn Martell like he either wants to run away or fling himself into the randy bugger’s arms and beg to be taken over the bar or something.

His big redheaded friend retreats to silence, watching Brienne with an intensity that might set her on fire. Luckily he isn't a Rh'llor worshipper like Beric. Otherwise who knows what might happen?

Beric takes it upon himself to retreat back to Ramsay and offer to buy his favourite psycho another Coke. Least he knows where is is with Ramsay. Usually on a cross somewhere being beaten senseless, just how he likes it.

“On for later?” he asks.

The strange pale eyes consider for a moment, flick to where Theon has his tongue down a woman’s throat and his hands up her skirt, then he nods tersely. It’s easy enough to put his arm around Ramsay, ruffle his hair, have the dark head rest against his shoulder. Feels homey, sort of. Not as good as when the candle wax and nipple clamps are flying, and a bit fucking soppy, but yeah, nice.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Baratheon?”

“Miss Tarth?”

“A man keeps looking at me.” He is huge, and bearded, and very, almost obscenely, ginger. She feels her face turn scarlet, heat pooling in her cheeks, and concentrates on Stannis.

“Oh, that’s just Tormund Giantsbane. Ignore him, he has terrible manners.”

“That’s quite an interesting surname.”

“Wildling extraction. Not a bad tight-head prop, but the entire front row are just stubborn. Tell them to do something, and they would rather drink and ‘brofist,’ whatever that even means. Clegane is the best of them, but he seems to have found himself a girlfriend of all things. Dondarrion, the tattooed one at the bar, plays my old position.”

Stannis refuses to say hooker again, with obvious good reason. Dondarrion winds an arm over the very angry and muscular young man with the creepy eyes; there are full inked sleeves on both those arms, burning fire from knuckle to underneath his tight teeshirt. Lots of scars. The angry young man grunts something, glares at a lean and sarcastically pert youth buried tongue deep in the mouth of a willing girl, and thumps his head onto Beric’s shoulder.

She peeks once more, and Giantsbane has pretty good teeth for a front row inasmuch none are obviously missing. He grins, salutes her with his beer bottle. Tormund drinks proper northern ale, the sort that looks like a cross between a peat bog and a slaughterhouse.

Brienne is not quite sure what to make of him. At all. He seems quite keen? The last time a man tried to seduce her, she broke his nose with her elbow. If this is another bet-

“How are you finding King’s Landing, Miss Tarth?” asks the overly-polite man with the glasses, still slightly sticky from port and lemon being flung all over the place.

“Fine, thank you, Mr. Tyrell. Are you related to Mace Tyrell?”

“He is my father.” A slight tension about the man’s eyes suggests that was possibly not the best of questions to ask.

“Excellent number eight,” Stannis interjects.

“My entire family adores rugby. Sorry.” He apologises constantly. Brienne thinks he seems rather like a nervous greyhound puppy that needs the loo. “I did, until I got stood on by Gregor Clegane. Smashed my knee up, and I’ve been limping ever since.”

“He got you, too?” Really, Gregor Clegane should be banned. However, the only referee to send him off ended up with concrete shoes and was found four months later in the harbour.

“I was eleven. Not a bad outside half, and you know we love our outside halves in The Reach.” He smiles, wistful. “Unfortunately I met the Unstoppable Force known as Gregor Clegane, who was in sixth form and massive even then, and that was that. They rebuilt me, they had the technology, but alas, I am unable to play any more.”

“And now we have to suffer your younger brother.” Stannis scowls, Willas flails.

“I am sorry for introducing him to Renly. Their relationship-”

“I don’t particularly care about that,” Stannis snaps. “I am just furious that my brother decided playing to play for Highgarden instead of King’s. No family loyalty, whatsoever. The cheek of Loras, coming in and seducing the captain of the team, in order to have him play for the Roses. Absolutely criminal, Willas. If I was a lesser man I would have blocked your promotion to partner for such a slight.”

“Sorry.” Every time he says it, Willas Tyrell obviously means it.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Six thirty in the morning. Brienne has been to the gym and is in that happy post-exercise glowing place where everything feels amazing.

Her excitement at getting her hands dirty and coaching is stymied by the actuality of her team.

She sizes them up; most are sleepy, and several clutch hugely calorific coffees in their hands. That needs to be remedied. A dietitian will have to be employed; seriously, does anyone need a full fat latte with however many sugars she saw Bronn pour into his cup? Is Sam really drinking Coke at this time of the morning? Is Theon really that baked he has to drape himself over Robb and Jon so not to fall over?

Beric looks like he has done ten rounds with a championship boxer, but seems rather zen about the fact he has a black eye and split lip. He seems quite mobile, though, as if whatever or whoever happened carefully avoided any major damage. Clegane is covered in bruises also, but of the more feminine love bite variety; he has lipstick on his jawline. He seems grim, naturally pissed-off, apart from when he gets a text; his scarred mouth drags into a wonky and love-smitten private smile.

Glossing over Tormund because he is grinning at her again. She wonders why her stomach flips about like a Myrish gymnast. Stannis told her that he is a fireman. She keeps trying to block the image of him wielding an immense hose from her brain.

Sam and Pod need to lose weight, seriously. Lovely boys, both of them, but will not work with the team’s current formation. She needs to talk to Stannis about changes she has in mind for that, but at the moment she is just content to put them through their paces and see what can be done.

Pod is talking about a girl he has met who apparently fences for her school, all shy hands and blushes, and Sam natters on about his Gilly. Jorah is old. Fit, yes, and a decent enough flanker, but compared with Gendry, then there is an issue. She tries to think if she could draft in someone, anyone, but there are very few men of the size of Mormont about. Old, yes, but he is still big and strong and bear-like. Wrong position. Nothing wrong with Gendry, though. Dressed appropriately and not shivering in the chill breeze coming from the Blackwater he seems one of the only people vaguely awake, and gives her a friendly competent nod.

The big Dothraki number eight meets her enquiring gaze, and flexes, just a little. Arrogant, but with good reason - Drogo is very good, if uncaring. His phone rings, Dragonforce blasting _Through the Fire and Flames_ from the device, and he answers with “ _yer jalan atthirari anni_.”

Jorah tenses, looks up at the sky.

Edd falls over his own feet. For he is Dolorous Edd. He smiles crookedly at Brienne, a twist of his long jaw and serious eyes watchful. He is the sort of man who can lead, quietly and efficiently and with loyalty; no confidence though, and a pessimist streak a mile wide.

She really likes Edd. He is a good, if sardonic, man.

Jon, Theon, and Robb knot together, swaying. Possibly still drunk? Students. Explains everything, really.

Bronn? Definitely still drunk. He wears even more leather than Ramsay, which is impressive. How anyone could, she is not quite sure, but Bronn seems the sort to wear leather underwear just because it is how he rolls. Oberyn is smoking and drinking espresso, looking very cosmopolitan, flicking idly through his phone and smiling pleasantly to himself. From what she sees, the screen looks a little porn-y. Definitely breasts.

Ramsay. She can work with. He appears dedicated, to the point of obsession. Even if he seems like he wants to sink his teeth into her neck, just to see what she tastes like. He paces, staffordshire bull terrier-like and as if he owns the entire world, before poking Beric lightly on the hip and grinning wildly as the big front row winces.

“If I could have your attention please?” Brienne claps her hands. In degrees they put away phones, finish drinks, come to form a jumbled knot before her. “Thank you for attending the facilities so bright and early - we will make this the regular time for morning training-”

“Morning training? Like, in the morning? This isn’t just a one off?” Theon seems panicky, and definitely stoned. “But, like, my lectures don’t start ‘til 2, I want a lie in. S’why my lectures are at 2, because of that. Six in the morning is wrong. Doesn’t exist. Anyone got a Mars Bar?”

One is flung at his head, a sharp snap of a wrist by Ramsay, who is impressively accurate at hitting Theon on the nose. Brienne mentally notes his throwing ability.

Others join the chorus, apart from her proto-favourites. Gendry shakes his handsome head in disgust, Ramsay stares at the others with a murderous expression. Tormund shrugs, gives her a rueful look. Not that he is one of her favourites, but having seen some amateur footage, he is very good at what he does. Strong, agile, fast for a large man. Quite often is shirtless and covered in freckles like cinnamon. Rippling muscles down his back, and the sort of tackling that makes coaches slightly turned on.

Not that Tor turns her on. In a purely professional basis, perhaps, but not personally. Brienne is unused to meeting people larger than her, and it makes her feel rather, well, nervous. Having been at least a head taller than everyone else her entire life, the sheer scale of Tormund is a little intimidating. Nice enough, even if he does keep looking at her in a disconcertingly fascinated way, like he wants to know what lies under her armour of hoodie and fitted jogging bottoms.

Brienne has her rugby boots on, just in case.

She believes in training with her squad. Plus, if Jorah needs a rest, she can slip in at his position.

Sam and Pod are polite enough not to get involved, edging away from the throng of naysayers and clustering with Edd, who looks doleful as always. Beric, who seems to not really care either way, does what Ramsay tells him. 

Oberyn shakes his dark head and slips his phone into the front pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers. Even in sports gear he looks like a bloody model, all graceful dancer-like lines with an underlying core strength, even if he fills his body with noxious substances. He seems to be taking her corner in this matter, however, and for that Brienne is grateful. The others seem to listen to the Dornishman, possibly through sheer force of personality.

“Do I really have to go and get Varys?” he drawls, and everything goes silent.

“You wouldn’t?”

“He would!”

“That’s fucking not fair, you Dornish cunt!”

Whatever a Varys is, it seems to be an effective tool of control. She notes it.

Oberyn smirks, winks at her, before bringing his phone back out and lighting another cigarette. Menthol, black-papered, very poncy Lysene. She can’t work out if he is gay or straight or both, or whether he just wants to make love to the entire world.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Martell?”

“Oberyn please, sweet lady.” He offers her a coffee, and Brienne shakes her head.

“What exactly,” and she pitches her tone very low, “is a Varys?”

“Ah, my little friend has not told you of Varys?” Oberyn takes her arm, ever the gentleman, bearing her away to a small and private table within the run-down clubhouse. “He is Tyrion’s associate.”

“Oh, he’s a man?”

“Technically.” He settles, hooks a toned thigh under him, pats the chair next to his. Around them players squabble over who gets to use the coffee machine first, but Beric saunters through, pours a drink - black, no sugar - and hands it to Ramsay who disappears like Gollum on a mission. There is something Hobbity about Bolton, though more towards ‘precious’ than ‘second breakfast.'

“Varys is Tyrion’s particular friend. I am sure you wonder how our little Imp is so wealthy? It is because of Varys. He is not a gentleman to cross. He also adores Tyrion, and he adores back. They are a strange couple, yes? A dwarf and a,” and here Oberyn stumbles, searching. “A Varys. Perhaps he is as a villain in a movie? Camp, and plump, and ruthless. I thought perhaps he and Tyrion were lovers. But no. All deserve happiness and wonderful sex. Tyrion has the beautiful Shae. I have not yet found a friend for Varys. He is a very driven man. His tastes run towards power rather than desire.”

“Oh.”

“ Varys is perfectly charming if you know him socially. I have not slept with him, although sometimes I wonder what it would be like.”

Brienne blinks. The man grins, knowing and dissolute, and really, Oberyn Martell is possibly one of the most sexually-charged people she has ever met. Not her type. Not big enough. She would probably squash him accidentally. “Could you tell me about the others? I have Mr. Baratheon’s version, but he tells me about how they play rather than as people.”

“Ah, the lovely lady wishes for gossip?”

“...please?”

It is an eye opening monologue.

She also learns that Oberyn Martell would willingly sleep with everyone on the team. Apart from Edd. Because, obviously, he is Dolorous Edd.

Oberyn Martell is a tart.

He also calls her, within five minutes, an Amazon, a goddess, the glory of the Sapphire Isle, and a Valkyrie of his heart. Which is weirdly nice. His flirting is outrageous and amusing, and does not really threaten Brienne’s fragile inner-self. It seems as if this is just Oberyn being friendly, and he does the same to everyone.

Apart from Edd. Obviously.

Then Jaime Lannister shows up, and it all goes to hell.

 

* * *

 

He looks beautiful, even red-eyed and hungover to the max. That unfairly perfect golden hair glows with a sort of inner light that models envy, the silvering just adding a maturity to the all-round expression of masculinity. Is it possible for someone that handsome to get more attractive as they age? Even in scruffy jeans and a hoodie rather more tattered than her own he is glorious. He watches her with a sick fascination that sends an itch behind Brienne’s neck, and she scratches helplessly, unsure of what to do.

This is a precarious situation. Jaime should not be here. He is sacked, fired, whatever else Stannis Baratheon told him. However, he seems popular with his players, who flock hopefully and loudly bitch about early morning starts, fitness, and this being an amateur club.

“It would be far easier,” Oberyn murmurs, and his voice is a caress down her spine, “if he were not so charismatic. And beautiful.Such a beautiful man.”

“Oh, is he?” Brienne pretends, desperate, that she hasn’t noticed. Of course she has. She realised such when she was fourteen and he was pinned to her wall, sadly only in poster form, but Brienne will not give anyone the satisfaction that she might have a long-standing crush on one Jaime Lannister. No one can ever know that.

“Can you just talk to her, coach?” begs half the team, the half that may become a problem.

He is propelled by their sheer willpower towards Brienne, and he eyes her up and down in that usual handsome man looking at a wilfully unattractive woman way.

“Gods, you really are ugly, aren’t you?”

Someone titters.

“Mr. Lannister.” Much easier to keep professional, rather than give in to an urge to start shouting.  He sneers, and even that is gorgeous.

“Brienne’s not ugly, you southron bastard whorefucker-”

“Coming from you, Giantsbane, with your infamously terrible taste in women, do you really think your words could make any difference?” She flinches, and Jaime smirks, dangerous and shark-like. She hates him. Hates. With his rich mocking voice, and the emerald eyes that are still half-drunk prising her apart. Searching and assessing, finding those little cracks in her facade that can bring Brienne crashing down to her knees in defeat in an instant.

Tormund barges forward, knocking Sam and Pod flying. They tumble in a heap, like labrador puppies.

“You apologise to the woman, Lannister!”

“Or what? You’ll punch an unarmed man in the face?” Waving his stump, tauntingly. Tormund nears, and they are nose to nose, snarling. For a moment Brienne is reminded of two alpha male beasts, a bear and a lion, roaring their displeasure, battling for a mate. Wishful thinking, yes, but then everything twists in her head. A visual of two men - one gorgeous and leonine and golden, the other red-furred and huge and unabashedly masculine - wrestling. In mud. Maybe naked. Why does it always default back to well-built men wrestling each other in mud, maybe naked? Maybe kissing?

Gods.

Testosterone flies. The team edges away as one mass, huddling together. Wildly she thinks that they must not like it when Daddy argues, and Brienne presses her sleeve into her mouth to stifle a tiny, hysterical giggle.

Better than crying as she loses her influence, dignity, and rugby team on the very first morning. She is not a natural sobber, but sometimes angry embarrassed tears force their way from her ducts.

Beric murmurs something to Ramsay, who seems to glitter malevolently. They move forward as one, fingers finding earlobes, tugging. The combined effort brings both Jamie and Tormund up short, their yelling reduced to whimpers in a strong-handed instant.

“Apologise to Miss Tarth,” Bolton whispers, pinching harder. He just about comes up to Lannister's shoulder. Jaime yelps, eyes squinty and wet-seeming. Serves him right, Brienne thinks. Serves him right for showing up and showing her up, the prick. The sexy arrogant smoldering prick.

“Don’t be a dick, Tor.” Beric smiles at his friend, who appears resigned.

“What am I supposed to do?” Jaime snarls. “She comes here, takes my team off me, and I get sacked. Aren’t I allowed to be a bit pissed off about this? Or do I have to say ‘yes, Stannis, whatever you want, you closeted bastard,’ and smile and doff my cap? I am the best coach in this league, and you all know it. Without me, you’d be still shit!”

Ah.

Guilt roils. Brienne swallows, feeling even worse. It was fine when Jaime just mocked and prodded, but when he puts things like that, of how it is her fault, how she shouldn’t be here, how he was humiliated in front of everyone, it seems such a different beast.

Ramsay rolls his eyes, examines Jaime with a curiously sadistic expression, and twists.

“Fuck, Bolton!”

“No. Apologise.”

“Fine, fine. I am sorry for being accurate in my description of your hideous looks. I should have pretended you were actually attractive. For shame, my honesty. Shame.” Brienne’s sixth sense squeaks that Ramsay might do something rather unfortunate, like a child equipped with sunlight, a magnifying glass, and a rather annoyed ant.

“Thank you Mr. Lannister, apology accepted. Please drop him, Ramsay.”

Jaime rubs his ear, balefully.

“Could we have a word in my office, Mr. Lannister?”

“You get an office? I never got an office. That’s not fair. I want an office.”

 

* * *

 

Her office turns out to be the table in the quiet corner of the clubhouse. A laptop lies neatly upon the stained and burned surface, a remnant left from before the smoking ban. Folders. Files. Everything seems very tidy, very organised. Jaime picks one up, flicks through, finds comprehensive notes about Gendry and Jorah’s performances last season. He agrees with the sentiments, mostly. Brienne has very neat handwriting, oddly girlish given the vastness of the woman herself. Each folder is colour co-ordinated, and he works out that every position has a coding. Everything seems annoyingly efficient. Professional. Bitch.

“Coffee?” Polite wench. She looks annoyingly awake for someone who probably rises at 4am to do some sort of stupid yoga routine. For a moment he wonders how bendy she is.

“Black, one sugar.” The mug is one of the nicer ones, without any chips on the rim. He cradles it in his hand and sits, watching the woman fiddle nervously with her computer.

“I was unaware that you weren’t told that I was replacing you.”

“Not as unaware as me,” he points out. Gods, she is awful looking. Some sadistic arsehole of a God decided to make her face even worse by giving her the most beautiful blue eyes. Wide and large and framed by long pale lashes, they are wasted on this wench.

Wench is better than calling her Brienne. Calling her an actual name lends legitimacy, and he will not have that. She stole his job. She is the reason Stannis sacked him in the middle of the bloody pub. Wench is the reason for him having nothing, now. No Cersei, no job, and the mocking reminder of his lack of a life scarred and ending suddenly in a sleeve that conceals his missing his hand.

“You’re going to fuck up, you know?” His hangover buzzes unpleasantly, but Jaime is used to the grogginess. He has been drunk, properly addictedly drunk, for about six months solid now. Before that he just played at alcoholism. Cersei told him to fuck off, that she’d never be with a man who is less than whole, and went and fucked Lancel of all people. Lancel, who looks rather like Jaime, but lesser in all ways. That really fucking stung. She fucks Lancel because his bastard cousin - and Cersei loves keeping it in the family, always has done - has all the requisite parts. “The team is already in two halves, you saw it out there. You really think that you can overcome that?”

“I am sure when I talk to them-”

“Talk to them? Hah!” His mirthlessness echoes, and the woman flinches. It suddenly strikes him that she is very young indeed. “What’ll that do, wench?”

“My name is Brienne.”

“You’ve lost the students, or at least Jon, Robb, and Theon. Sam will follow them, and Pod’ll tag along. Bronn doesn’t give a shit, neither does Drogo. Jorah’s fucking geriatric, should have been replaced years ago. Oberyn doesn’t take a damned thing seriously. Sandor is way too pussy-whipped to be interested since he found a woman mad enough to sleep with him. Beric is too concussed to think most of the time, so allows Ramsay of all people to think for him. Ramsay is a law unto himself. Edd is decent but a liability. So that leaves you with Gendry, who is good enough to be a pro and I’ve no idea why he isn’t, and Giantsbane who seems to want to shag you for some insane Wildling reason. You can’t have a rugby team of two.” He sips his coffee, the burn comforting on his tongue.

The girl - not a woman, how old is she? he wonders - swallows.

“I am not going to give in, despite your reservations. I gave Mr. Baratheon my word. I am aware of the issues within the team, and I shall deal with them, Mr. Lannister. I have played and coached rugby before.”

Jaime’s eyes slide over her. She has the strength and the build, the robustness for tackling, the explosive power in her muscled thighs, and shoulders for throwing. Perhaps they should just shoot Jorah and get Brienne into his position? If he still coached, he’d do that. Release Brienne, let her go and smash some shit up. Might relax her a little, scruff up that shiny honourable facade.

Shit. Not his team. Not his call.

“And, pray, how are you going to do that, wench?”

Her expression flits between overly-earnest and angry.

“I have my way.”

“Talk with them? Offer then a nice cup of coffee and discuss their problems? Therapy?”

“If you are so sure about how this team works,” and there is fire in her eyes, and Brienne spits her words. “Then why don’t you tell me what you’d do?”

“What I’d do,” and Jaime leans forward, eyes never leaving hers. “I would have another coach. Someone who knows the game, who has played it at international level. Someone with style, and a different approach, who knows the men.”

“You, you mean?” Glaring.

“My Gods? What a great suggestion! I accept your kind offer to co-coach - I’ll start immediately!” He reaches over, shakes her left hand with his, and sprints out to tell the players the good news before Brienne can even open her mouth to bray that wasn’t what she meant, and how dare he, and how insufferable he is, and all the usual things that a decent woman with no clue about the world would shriek.  


* * *

 

Oberyn finds her face down, forehead on the table, muttering to herself.

“Ah. Lannister strikes again, yes?”

“I didn’t tell him he could, he just took what I said out of all context, and Mr. Baratheon is going to be furious with me!” Brienne does not move from her supine position of self-flagellation.

He takes it upon himself to work at those tense muscles in her back, marvelling at the strength concealed by her hooded jersey. Under his fingers, which know where to dig and soothe because massage is an excellent foreplay method, and Oberyn is damned good at both rubbing and seduction, she turns into a quivering jelly of a woman, breathing slowing to murmured pleasurable breaths.

“We tell Stannis that you believe that taking over so quickly and differently shall impact the team, yes? That to truly pass from Jaime to you, there must be a period where you both work as one. This will allow for a better hand-over from him to you. You shall absorb what he has taught, and then combine with your own ideas.”

“Mmmph.”

He smirks, contemplates sleeping with her, but thinks Wilding rampages, whilst sexually enticing, could lead to damage for certain handsome Martell gentlemen. Beatings are far more Beric’s kink than his. Oberyn would ask Tormund for a threesome, but northerners are far more uptight about sharing their partners. Really. Dornes are more than happy to offer wives, catamites, lovers, and various family members to guests; it is only polite, after all.

“Do you feel better, lovely lady?”

“Mmmmm…d’youdoprofessionalmassages…?”

“No, but I sleep with many people, some of whom like having oils and unguents rubbed into their skin pre and post-coitally. I recommend jasmine oil for a more sensual experience.”

“...’kay. S’nice.”

“Good girl.”

 

* * *

 

“Nice having you back, you cunt,” Bronn drawls. “Can’t have a bloody woman bossing us about.”

“You get enough of that in your private life.” Jaime grins, and Blackwater kicks him not too gently on the ankle. “Where’s Oberyn?”

“Probably sexting his ex again. She sent topless photos. Bloody hell, J, never seen tits like that in my life.” He waves his hands about, international hand signalling for enormous breasts. “Gorgeous woman, that Ellaria. Funny she ran off with his niece, isn’t it? Are all Dornish bi?”

“Dorne,” Jaime explains, “is weird as hell.”

“Gorgeous women.”

“Don’t tell Asha that, she’ll have your balls as earrings.”

“Love my girl,” he says, and Bronn means it. His Ironborn partner is the only woman that can deal with his general air of dissolute perversion, his mercurial fits, the way he works for Tyrion in very dodgy capacities that sometimes involve dark alleyways and professional shivving. “She bought me a kukri for my nameday, proper one. That’s a girl who knows her man.”

“Also handy if she needs to chop your balls off at any moment.”

“Hey, if they have to go, it’ll be to a bloody gorgeous knife.” Bronn collects, and uses his collection, very seriously indeed. “No substandard castration for me, J. Oh, V wanted a word, said it is urgent but can’t get hold of you. Slippery cunt that you are.”

Jaime’s expression switches appropriately from amusement to vague and terrified horror.

“Whatever he thinks I’ve done, I haven’t!”

“I think he wants to keep you in a harem with all the other pretty boys. You’d be his favourite though.” Bronn loves tormenting his Lannisters. It is one of his major hobbies. “I’m sure he’ll be thoroughly pleased at keeping you chained and lubed for his pleasure.”

“I need a drink.”

“Ask V. He’ll make you drink it out of his stiletto or something.”

“The image of V in drag is an abomination, Bronn. Especially when on a hangover. Go away and warm up, or something.”

“Buttplugs. Manacles. Big Braavosi with cock rings. Tonguing!”

Jaime grabs the rugby ball and pegs the fleeing Bronn perfectly between the shoulder blades, even throwing with his left hand, whilst still a little bit drunk, and possessed with some sort of rage-filled angst about what Varys wants from him this time.

Makes Bronn quite proud, really. Anything to deflect the sad bastard from drinking more.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is nothing but a filthy filthy slasher. Good girl.
> 
>  
> 
> [Dragonforce is here. W00t power metal |m|](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dG7Rl3qxUqY)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

Stannis checks his watch for the fifth time.

“She really does not seem the sort to be late.”

Davos is wearing that slightly spicy cologne that Stannis abashedly gave him for his last name day. The scent is vaguely Essosi, with a hint of clean sandalwood, and unfortunately now has the ridiculous effect of being part of his entire Seaworth Fetish. Baratheon is not in the habit of distributing presents, and then only to a select few. Family, of course, but that is more obligation than desire. Tyrion receives an excellent bottle of rare spirits each year, and Shae a tastefully elegant piece of jewellery in the Lorathi style - even if that is a contradiction in terms. Davos receives the same attention, though Stannis frets for weeks to find the perfect gift, often waking at night in a cold sweat. He has taken to keeping locked spreadsheets upon his laptop, full of thoughtful ideas. 

One of the entries is a yacht.

Another is Stannis himself, in nothing but wrapping paper and a big bow.

The other spreadsheet, the one doubly and triply locked, heavily encrypted, sometimes written in smatterings of High Valyrian, lists, in detail, every fantasy that involves himself and a certain barman. Alphabetical order, of course, for ease of browsing. Even if he does have to go and have some personal time after writing each entry, Stannis makes sure everything is grammatically correct and spell checked. Nothing worse than delving into a highly erotic story and losing an erection as the editing is so poor.

“I’m sure she has reason.” Davos smiles, all weathered corners to his eyes, neat silvering beard that Stannis is convinced would feel ridiculously good against his skin. “Want to try the Rayder ‘15 while you’re waiting? I’ll do it on the house, for you.”

“No ice.”

“Obviously. It’s too decent to dilute.” Davos is good at drinks. He is good at everything, though Stannis admits his bias, especially being sensible, striking, and older-man attractive. No one looks as good in a rugby shirt. No one exudes such a sense of calm competence. Nobody else makes faded blue Navy tattoos look that lickable.

The whisky is peat-rich, and full-bodied. Delicious. 

“Have one yourself, Davos.” He pays for this one, Davos pouring a measure with practiced ease.

Even if he can’t kiss the infuriatingly sexy barman, who has the sheer temerity to be wearing those dark jeans that dare to cling to his backside, Stannis can drink the same drink and imagine that is what Davos tastes like. Like northern moors, even if he is from Fleabottom, and he’d shove Stannis against the wall with a loving command, tell him in that warm, kind voice to kneel and unbutton those irritatingly snug Seaworth jeans, and Stannis would slowly break him apart with the power of lips and tongue on his -

“I am so sorry, Mr. Baratheon.” Well. Bugger. He squashes images of being on his knees and worshipping at the Fount of Davos Seaworth.

Raises an eyebrow.

“Brienne. Your face?”

Not the usual issue of Brienne’s face. 

“Yes, about the black eye-”

 

* * *

 

“Bros.” He bumps fists with Beric and Sandor, who has finally surfaced from his Stark girl. The only reason she is not surgically attached to his groin is because Sansa, on a mission, is trying to persuade Podrick to tell Arya that he fancies her. “Shift, Beric.”

Dondarrion does as he is told, as always - he really is well-trained - and Tormund settles into the vacated seat. From his vantage point he can watch Brienne talking with Stannis, looking proud and wonderful. Gorgeous woman. Strong and lovely, and wearing a King’s Landing shirt that settles perfectly about her broad back. She is even more desirable since Jaime Lannister, not quite as drunk as usual, demanded she show off her moves on the field. 

Lucky bastard Drogo. All that mud. All that woman, power and agility and pale freckled arms, taking out the big Dothraki with an exceptional crunching tackle. Jorah is fine with losing his place as Brienne took down his love-rival for Dany Targaryen. Mormont muttered about karma, and that the moon and star belongs to him, and dragon queens of his heart.

Playing rugby with a hard-on is really bloody difficult. He accidentally poked Sam, almost took the poor sod’s eye out.

“She looks so good with the shiner.” 

“Surprised you didn’t try and kill fucking Drogo for it.” Sandor opens a bag of crisps, settling back, all long legs and black jeans. He is going for that look again, the one that makes him seem like some sort of satanic shouty singer in a shouty satanic band. Sometimes he turns up in the remnants of eyeliner, looking half seriously pissed-off, and half bashful. Sansa seems to have a thing for motorbike-riding industrial metal-loving security guards, especially ones that could be rock gods given other circumstances. He puts up with her plastering makeup on him because he is in love with the daft mare.

“Battle scars.” Tormund is oddly cheerful, eyes never leaving Brienne’s battered face. “That’s a woman, that is."

“Only you would consider rugby as foreplay.” Beric plays with his lighter, watching the flame burn blue. Sometimes he purposely scorches his hand and smiles quietly to himself. Weird masochistic bastard.

“How do I get her to tackle me?"

“Offer yourself as tribute.” Beric has a thing for  _ The Hunger Games _ . Only the books though. He eschews the films on principle.

“Tackle her first? Like pulling her fucking hair, or some shit. I dunno.” Clegane exists on a caveman level, even for Tormund.

“How you ever pulled Sansa I have no idea.”

“She likes me. Don’t know why the fuck she does, but I’ll go with it.” Tor doesn’t point out that Sandor might be a bit knackered looking, and covered in scars, but he is sexy in the way of the permanently doesn’t realise. Like Brienne. She doesn’t know the impact she has. Sandor doesn’t give a shit, and is honest to a fault, and women find that hot apparently.

“She’s posh,” Beric counters. “Bit of rough, isn’t it?”

“That why Ramsay likes you?” Sandor looks down his impressive nose. “Or because you’re a weird pervy cunt?”

“But you love me Sandor, for all of my flaws.” Flame-inked fingers pat Sandor’s ruined cheek fondly, and he’s going to the bar to grab the next round.

“Are they fucking?” Neither of them know.

“Dunno. Don’t care. It’s all weird.” They try not to think of Beric’s personal life too much. Ramsay creeps everyone out, the little psycho. The two men tend to not hide their distaste, though Tormund does ask if everything is okay when Beric turns up with lips mashed, or moves just that little bit too carefully. The stupid bastard always smiles, blissed-out, says he isn’t broken, not yet. Neither him or Sandor understand, but if things progress too far, Bolton will get the shit kicked out of him. It is a given. 

“How much d’you think she weighs?” Back to Brienne. Always back to her.   


“Enough to fucking crush the back row.”

“She needs a robust man, she does. Someone who can deal with all that woman. Don’t that bruise bring the blue in her eyes out?”

Sandor stares at him, levelly, without judgement, and Tor grins, huge and wide.

“Fuck’s sake, Giantsbane.” 

“Tosser.”

“Wilding cunt.”

Sandor almost smiles as he is given more beer, and some venison flavoured crisps that went out of date in 2006. He’s easily pleased.

 

* * *

 

Edd and Pod are arguing in the way of the ridiculously intelligent and slightly pretentious. It is the usual argument. The eternal opposition of the half-full and half-empty glass people. Sansa has departed, leaving delicate perfume in her wake, and Edd watching her mournfully as she joins Jeyne Poole at a little table. There are pitchers of sangria involved.

“As Schopenhauer stated,” Edd intones, and very few people know he is a professor of Philosophy at KLU because firstly he doesn’t tell them, and lastly only mad fools take his fiendishly depressing classes. “‘ All satisfaction, or what is commonly called happiness, is really and essentially always negative only, and never positive.’”

“Ah,” Podrick throws back, for he is reading both Mathematics and Philosophy, and the mad fool is Edd’s favourite student, “as Rousseau wrote in his letter to Voltaire dated August 1756, ‘this optimism that you find so cruel consoles me still in those woes that you paint as inconsolable.’”

They chink glasses, Pod grinning and Edd doleful as always.

“Are you going to ask her out? I’m not sure you should. It would be nice for you if she says yes, but what if she says no?”

“And what if I don’t ask her, and never know?”

Edd considers, eyebrows raised and looking up at the rafters, before conceding. “There is that.”

“She is just so brilliant, Edd. She likes my cooking. I made her cocoa cupcakes with a fudge core and chocolate ganache icing, and she said they were the best cakes she’d ever had. Even better than her Mum’s.” Which is a Big Thing. Cat Stark taught Hot Pie, presenter and star of  _ The Great Westerosi Bake-Off _ , everything he knows.

“Is she as pretty as Sansa?” Edd has a huge and carefully concealed soft spot for Sansa, who takes the time to talk to him. He has a romantic heart, does the professor, even if he is positive he shall remain loveless for all eternity. Somehow he exists vicariously through the love lives of the others.

“Sansa is dead classy. Arya is,” and he looks rather soppy for a moment. “She’s clever, and fiery. She’s like a tiny little hand grenade, ready to explode. She’s fun.”

“If you are sure that you want to risk the heartbreak, then you should.” Edd’s long face, so mobile and expressive - he was once a successful mime artist living in a garret in elegant poverty whilst studying the ancient Valyrian philosophers in Volantis - tends towards the warm. “ _ Carpe diem _ , after all, even if it probably will all go wrong. I’m here to pick up the pieces if needed.”

 

* * *

 

Theon corners Ramsay in the bathroom whilst he is trying to have a piss. One moment Bolton is in a little world of his own, thinking about the usual things  - flaying, certain drugged up students with spectacular arses, sex, sci-fi, Beric, rugby, no order of preference - and then Greyjoy insinuates himself at the next urinal, blatantly disregarding the usual man-rules about keeping one trough between pissers at all time.

“Ramsay.”

“Theon.” 

Greyjoy has a massive cock. The rumours are true. He could pole vault with that thing. Ramsay stares at his own reflection in the mirror and wonders why the fuck Theon is talking to him, how he fits that thing in his too-tight jeans, and how much of an impact have the trousers on the squid’s sperm count. There are invertebrates tattooed all over Theon’s lean chest. He’s a marine biology major with a serious hard-on for cephalopods.

Ramsay tucks himself back into his black jeans, washes his hands with the obsessiveness of a man aware of what good hygiene can do to wounds and open skin. He is nothing but conscientious in his torture. He prefer his playmates to live, after all. Getting someone as hardcore as himself can take months.

“Y’know Beric?”

Of course he does. He knows him especially well every Thursday between 10.30pm and midnight, though not in a Holy Book of the Seven sense.

“What do you want?” Ramsay eyes the other, wondering if anyone would miss Theon if he was kidnapped right now. Kept in a dungeon as a pet. Begging to be flayed into pretty pieces for fucking the Bolton world up with his lovely arse and tight jeans. Everything would be so much more simple if he could just be content with Beric, who is perfect, and willing, but no. Fucking Theon Greyjoy with his legs and quirky hipster thing. Definitely needs punishing for his sins.

Theon looks away, pupils blown on Tyrion’s finest Myrish marching powder. No one apart from Beric can keep Ramsay’s creepy gaze, and given that his playmate maintains eye contact when being Tasered, that is quite impressive. Sometimes Beric winks, just as the spikes stab his pectorals at however thousand volts.

His stomach twists fondly. All that lovely pullable red-gold hair, and heavy scarring along Beric’s muscled back that Ramsay keeps nicely fresh. That infinite ability to take everything thrown at him.

Theon would be the brattiest sub this side of Harrenhal. Fun, yes, but when he just wants to work his frustrations out on cheerfully zen willing flesh that will not break, not the best idea. Kidnapping Theon and training him would be months of endless teaching, and frankly Ramsay isn’t sure he has the willpower. He’d probably end up cutting that stupid enormous cock off, or something, out of sheer frustration.

Which might be really interesting. Images flash, and his weird eyes sharpen as he considers the stoned Greyjoy swaying delicately before him.

“Are you and him fucking? Like we were talking about it, and wondering, and I was like, I’ll go ask Ramsay because Beric won’t say, and I’ve got a tenner on it just being kink, but Robb says you are, and Jon doesn’t want to think about it even though it would be like really hot, you know, because Seven, Ramsay, you’re so short, and he’s so massive-”

“...I am not short.” Snarling.

“You so are. You’re, like, a pocket-sized psycho. Almost as short as Jon, and he’s diddy.”

The psycho part does not annoy Ramsay. It never has. He is aware of his tendencies.

Being compared to Jon Snow? Harsh. Being called short, though. That is below the belt.

For fuck’s sake! He isn’t short. He’s just compact.

 

* * *

 

“Didn’t know you wore makeup, wench.” Jaime sways over, the world all rose-pink and happy. She smells of coconut conditioner, and grass stains. The bruising around her bloodshot eye is pretty spectacular. “Overdone it on the eyeliner though.”

“Lannister.”

“Hey Stannis the Mannis. Nice suit. Drink? Shae, Emergency!”

The pint is in his hand in a moment, cold and dripping with condensation, and Jaime swallows half in one go. It hits that perma-thirsty spot with a sweetly hoppy vengeance, and he leans against the bar. For once he is not so far gone as to want to argue and pass out. He is, for want of a better term, merry.

“Are you sure,” Stannis hisses through clenched teeth at Brienne, “that you have to collaborate with him?”

Brienne flushes an ugly red, and her ears burn. They look so hot and uncomfortable that Jaime touches the rim with a wandering finger. Eggs would fry on those ears. He rubs the smooth skin, and she pulls away awkwardly. Everything about her is strange, and over-sized, apart from her tits. 

He manages not to think of Cersei’s impressive, albeit silicone enhanced, assets, which is a change.

Does Brienne even wear a bra? What knickers does she have on, or is she all boxer shorts like the other lesbians? She has to be a lesbian. Poor Tormund, after a lesbian again. He experiences an emotion almost like pity for Giantsbane; no taste in women, whatsoever.

“Mr. Baratheon, as I explained-”

“Especially as the wench is playing, she needs a coach to coach the coach.” When he says the word three times in a row, it sort of loses any sort of meaning. Jaime contents himself with wedging himself between a stool, the bar, and Brienne’s surprisingly comfortable body. She seems more solid than any furniture. He ends up with his chin on her shoulder, nestled against the impressively developed trapezius.

Jaime does have a tendency towards the cuddly when at certain stages of drunkenness. One more pint will send him towards belligerence, but at that moment, he feels quite comfortable.

Though Stannis has gone purple.

* * *

 

“Ah, sweet boy, I must away a moment. Rescue mission.” Willas, who is not quite sure how he ended up at  _ The Mayflower _ , especially with Oberyn Martell, makes a strangled sort of sound.

The darkly handsome man has a penchant for fitted and half-unbuttoned silk shirts. Willas has been unable to make conversation for at least the last quarter of an hour; ever since he saw the suggestion of a nipple. Not that he was talking much whatsoever, since the Dornish accent sends him into some sort of highly-charged stupor from which there seems no recovery. Lots of nodding. Even more blushing. Tons of imagining how that glossy moustache tickles when kissing.

Seriously though. One moment Willas Tyrell was filing, finishing up the last few pieces of work for the weekend, and the next he is in the pub with this fascinating man who he isn’t quite sure what to do with, but whatever it is, he wants to do it enthusiastically and with vigour.

How did that even happen?

Everything grows infinitely worse when Oberyn returns with Jaime Lannister in tow. Because now there are two very beautiful men sitting near him, and Willas feels himself quietly clam up even more. Jaime is golden, a dazzling Holstian sun to Oberyn’s saturnine planetary suite.

“Jaime, this is Willas. He is Loras’ more fascinating brother.”

The left hand being offered throws him for a moment, but Willas is nothing but hugely polite and he responds with the correct arm.

“Didn’t you fuck Loras, Obi?”

Port and lemon goes everywhere. Again. All over Oberyn’s cream silk shirt.

“Ah,” the man murmurs, his caramel eyes catching Willas’ frantically embarrassed hazel. Oh Gods. Oh Gods, he has thrown port and lemon over Oberyn Martell for the second time in a  _ week, _ and that shirt is horribly expensive, and now Oberyn will  _ hate _ him, and how did he sleep with Loras? But then  _ everyone _ sleeps with Loras. But this is really  _ awkward. _ How can he sleep with Oberyn when Oberyn has slept with Loras? Not that he will, because Oberyn obviously goes for beautiful people, and Willas is not one of them, but his dreams may sometimes come true, and Is there some sort of convention for this? What is the etiquette? Does this mean he can’t sleep with Oberyn, not that he will, but theoretically, because Loras had him first? And considering his brother has probably slept with half of the gay male population of the Seven Kingdoms, where does that leave Willas and his possible sexual needs? Not that he can do anything because Olenna will have his _ head _ , but-

Willas flails, as he always does; internally.

Externally he just looks like a stunned kipper. Quite a pretty one, with lovely cheekbones, but he is not aware of this. No one tells Willas he is pretty, mostly because having Margaery and Loras in the family means all the epithets and flatteries are reserved for them.

Oberyn sighs, martyred, and takes his shirt off.

Oh Gods. Nipples. Chest hair.

The kipper look deepens, substantially.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn’s getting naked, Tyrion.”

“Why this time?”

“Another Tyrell-related port and lemon incident.” Davos scruffs a hand through his beard, grabs a cloth, and flings it in the vague direction of the soaking table. He is rubbish at throwing - hence why he never played rugby - but Willas catches the rag with a surprising grace and starts mopping, babbling endless apologies and studiously not staring at the glory of Oberyn’s chest.

“Oberyn is looking at him as if he’s a really good Rhoynar red.”

“Perhaps it is retaliation for Loras stealing Renly? A brother for a brother. As long as there is no fucking over the table, it can stand. If they do start fucking, we’re charging a tenner a ticket.”

“Good trade, I’d say, Willas for Renly,” and Davos keeps his voice low, as not to anger the already jaw-grinding Stannis.

“Renly is such a little bitch.” Tyrion stretches his legs out, nabs a packet of pork scratchings. “Speaking of bitches, Varys might be in later.” The Imp’s tone is curiously fond. “He has a proposition for Jaime.”

“I’ll break open the good gin.”

“No sex joke at my dear brother’s expense?"

“I’ll leave it to you. You are better at them than I am, boss.”

“Fine. Where were we up to? Oh, yes. Harems, leather thongs. Whips. Collars. Ball gags. Have I missed anything?”“Eunuchs.”  
  
“Fuck, I always forget eunuchs.”

 

* * *

 

Brienne sips at her third diet bitter lemon. Really, this is dangerously indulgent territory. She even stole a pork scratching from Tyrion who handed them about like sweeties. The salty crunch drives her to craving chips drenched with vinegar and tomato sauce.

“If you do need to have him removed, Miss Tarth, I am more than willing to issue the correct paperwork to ban him from being within fifty feet of the training ground. Lannister has the unfortunate propensity for causing trouble wherever he goes. His attitude towards you is unforgivably sexist, and I wish that I could convince you to drop him back into the gutter where he belongs and trust your own judgements.”

“The players like him.” Her fingers curl around a beer mat. When discussing matters that can be difficult, Brienne constantly fiddles.

“I understand that you are making moves to rearrange the roster?”

Who told Stannis that? Only Oberyn knows, and - her heart flutters, as the man’s tone is grim and dark, like espresso. Brienne’s confidence has been well and truly buggered about the entire week, and only Jaime can get many of the players doing anything. Mutineering seems a viable option.

“I think some changes should be made, yes.” Carefully, gauging.

“Good.” Stannis nods, an air of finality about the entire affair. “I never agreed with people trying to lift Tarly in the line out. Health and safety, Miss Tarth, suggests that to be a really unfortunate idea. I am surprised we have not been sued yet. Unfortunately for Lannister, he is an excellent coach when sober. When under the influence of however much he pours into his body, then he tries to be a friend of the team rather than a manager. That is not the way of a true leader. A leader must make unpleasant choices in order to bring the best from their army. I mean team.”

Brienne blinks. Grabs a napkin. Starts scribbling.

“So I think Sam needs to be in the front row, Tormund,” and she blushes very slightly, “and Sandor second row. That’ll upset them, though. Everything I want to do will upset someone.”

His long-fingered hand hovers over her own, almost shyly, before he briskly pats her arm. “Leadership is an unpleasant matter, Miss Tarth. I did not hire you for your people skills. I have others, like Oberyn, who are perfectly capable of smoothing hurt pride. You are here to do whatever it takes to make this side into a force. You may be as ruthless as you need to be, but both Tyrion and myself support your decisions. What about moving Jorah to my old position?”

“I think that Jorah is quite happy being in reserve.”

“Then you shall be my hooker.” How Stannis retains a perfectly straight face she does not know, but the man seems to be humourless when discussing rugby. He has a single-minded passion for the game that exceeds anything Brienne has ever encountered in her life.

The napkin grows dark with ink. Arrows are everywhere. There are even spidergrams.

Positions change under their capable fingers, Stannis murmuring encouragement as cliques are shattered, men are moved. Ramsay and Drogo remain in their original places, as do most of the back row. The rest, however, are broken to be reforged. The front row bros are no more, only Beric remaining but at tighthead, Sam moving to loosehead, Brienne going with them to be the central hammer blow.

At least she hasn’t got to wrap her arms about Tormund. That would be really bloody awkward. As it is he will be behind her, which may be even worse. He can look at her backside from his vantage point.

Perhaps this is a bad idea?

No. She promised Mr. Baratheon. Brienne is a woman of honour.

Between them they rip everything to shreds. It feels...cleansing? Jaime’s work, or whatever he says it was, falls to pieces as they talk, heads close together, whispering conspiratorially. Davos supplies them with drinks, and Stannis, who is sipping at something that seems very expensive, actually loosens his perfectly knotted tie.

Finally it is done. Finally, in ink and whisky and bitter lemon, everything is complete.

“There,” Stannis says, and he sounds proud and victorious. “That is your team.”

“Our team.” Her blue eyes meet his, and he nods, firmly.

“If they make trouble, mention Varys.”

“Speaking of the Devil.” Davos has been watching, also helping in his own way, asking the questions that Stannis seems to forget in his passion. They make a good partnership, he and Mr. Baratheon. She notices the quiet lingering gazes, from both men, when they think the other is not looking.

It’s sweet. Old people deserve to be happy.

The usual pub noise dulls, like a wet cloth over speakers. Silence roars.

Lilac hits her like a bullet, and she turns, coltish, only to be kissed on both cheeks by a plumply effeminate man with a bald head and the most perfect heliotrope suit in existence. Everything about him glitters sequins and sparkle, from the stacked jewelled rings on his soft fingers to the faint shimmer of face powder.

Stannis freezes as he is kissed in the same manner, unsure of what to do with actual human contact. He retreats as soon as he can, trying to get as near to Brienne as possible to use her as a human meatshield.

“V!”

“T, darling, aren’t you looking simply edible tonight? Is that Westwood I spy?”

Tyrion grins, clambering to his feet, sauntering down the bar on which he always sits, and slapping Varys on the shoulder with his own meaty paw.

“That suit is ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as you, you little degenerate.”

Shae and Tyrion are in love. That is a given. Varys and Tyrion? They might be even more in love, in the way that the very best of friends can only be.

Brienne’s head helplessly shifts to that space that the Westernet users called  _ slashing _ . Again.

Goes scarlet as her brain is assaulted with the weirdest imagery ever.

Another drink is sacrificed to the Gods of ‘what the fuck happens in  _ The Mayflower _ stays the fuck in  _ The Mayflower _ .’ She and Willas Tyrell have too much in common when it comes to throwing liquid around rooms.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all intents and purposes for this fic (and Mayflower fics) Sandor is to be played by Till Lindemann.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate team bonding exercises. If I could go and shoot people in the face, I'd be all over them.

* * *

 

 

“Is she watching? She has to be watching!” 

“She’s talking to Stannis,” Beric reports calmly. He has Ramsay’s shirt tied about his head like Rambo.

Tormund grins through his beard, wild-eyed and Cuban revolutionary. He and his bros - no longer front row, but always bros - are holed up in a tumbledown cottage somewhere north of base. It is near enough to where the sponsors and Brienne lurk that he can watch her, in all her glory. She is wearing a man’s dress shirt, the same colour of her eyes, rolled to her elbows. All he can think about, apart from gunning his non-bros in the head with his laser rifle, is that if he had a million years, he could never hope to kiss every freckle on her perfectly made body.

“Fucking obsessed,” Sandor rumbles, switching out his battery pack. He is ridiculously good at shooting people, though not as good as Beric, who is trained. Together, they are a well-oiled mercenary unit of laser pew-pew professionals.

“What’s she doing?”

“French kissing Stannis.” Beric has a sense of humour, somewhere. It is usually hidden under his perpetually relaxed manner and whip marks.

Tor shoves his friend out the way, scrabbling half up the broken stones, and there she is. No snogging, just acres of leg in faded blue Levis, and blonde hair glinting in the sun. Breathtaking. She is just amazing. The muscles in her thighs shift as she walks, like some magnificent heavy horse, the sorts knights rode into battle centuries before. Strong, and stocky, and just ideal for a big Wilding to come and swoop and steal-

Then Jaime shoots him in the face, cackling. Bastard is good even with his left arm.

With a war whoop not heard for centuries, and really, Tormund should be in furs, leathers, and equipped with an axe for this, he flings himself after Lannister.

Going down. He is felling some Jaime-shaped timber.

 

* * *

 

Oberyn just lets them shoot him, for he is texting. 

_ RU havin fun? :) _

_ You have awful grasp of the English language via texting, sweet boy. I am having fun watching the others race around. They seem very involved. _

_ What RU doin? :D _

_ Being shot. Team building is such a bore. I rather be doing something constructive, like you. _

The little face that comes through is the blushy one, and is perfectly adorable. Quite like Willas, really, with his wide-eyed naivete and inability to understand how delicious he really is. They have navigated the choppy waters of Oberyn having shagged Loras with aplomb, thoughtful gifts, and lots of port and lemon.

_ RU in camo? Pic??? :D:D:D _

_ Most of us are. Ramsay is shirtless, for some inexplicable reason. There are factions. It is fascinating in a Lord of the Flies manner. Anthropologists study for years to witness such. _

_ Who RU with? _

_ I am with me. I just cannot be bothered. I am watching them run about like little mad men desperate to assert their masculinity with pseudo-penis weaponry. Are you up to anything interesting? _

_ Filing :(:(:( Stannis left me w/all filing 2 do :(:(:( Stannis is mean :O _

_ It is indeed a token of my esteem that your texting is seeming cute. Anyone else and I would refuse to answer. _

_ Tell me what they r doin? _

_ We have factionalisation between the front and back rows. The students and Gendry are trying to take out Edd, Pod, Drogo and Bronn. Jorah shoots at nothing apart from Drogo for he wishes to steal his Khaleesi. Beric, Tor, and Sandor are an elite fighting squad and are winning, mostly because Beric was a soldier, even if they are all enormous targets. Ramsay is intent on playing a sniper and keeps screaming lines from Apocalypse Now and the Battlefield computer games. Jaime says hello, and has just shot me again. _

_ Hi Jaime!!! :D Say I tell him hi! :D _

_ I have now been threatened by Ramsay, and I am not allowed to shoot either Theon or Beric. He has quite a choke hold for a short man. Interesting musculature. _

_ I will protect u and hit him w/my cane! >:D _

_ That is ridiculously sweet, Willas. I would not ask you to lay your life down for mine, however, until we have been dating for at least six months. _

_...R we datin???? _

_ I thought it would be mutually agreeable, sweet boy, if you so wish? _

_ :O?????!!!!!!! :D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D!!!!!!!!!!!!! _

_ I presume by that you mean ‘yes please?’ _

_ :D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D!!!!!!!!!!!!!! _

_ I think I broke you. _

_ <3 xxxxx _

_ Adorable. _

 

* * *

 

Tyrion sips at his pina colada, feet on the low table. They have commandeered the patio furniture whilst Brienne, who he thinks is brilliant, and Stannis, who he thinks is an arse but at least he is their arse, wander about talking rugby. The conference centre is set in some pre-Targaryen era deer park in the hills outside of King’s Landing, and doubles as a smartish hotel. The two are taking advantage of all of the facilities, obviously.

“It’s all very butch, isn’t it?” Varys, on the gin, has turned a delicate pink. He has eschewed his usual suit and wears dark chinos and a lilac shirt. All of the purple, all of the time, no exception.

“Enjoying the view?” 

“That Gendry is quite dishy. Hideously straight, of course. Pod? What do we know of delightfully plump Pod?”

Tyrion snorts. “Too innocent for you, V. He is going out with Robb’s mad little sister, the one that is going into the Army.”

“Shame. I do like a little bit of meat on my sandwich.” He adjusts his over-large rimmed sunglasses, the frames the colour of his shirt. “Sam?”

“Extra specially straight, though he follows Jon about like a puppy.”

“Such an odd pairing.” The gin disappears in a long swallow, and a silently attentive waiter brings another immediately. “Jon is far too pretty for his own good. Sulky, though. Sullen. Emo, to be frank. Like something out of an appalling yet sexually ambivalent boyband. How the Starks breed such handsome children I do not know, though obviously Jon has the Targaryen blood. But really, the others? Cat and Ned aren’t that attractive.”

“Cat is bloody stunning, she’s MILFy as fuck,” Tyrion points out, waving his straw like a conductor, “and you don’t like Ned because he isn’t big enough for you to lech on and is so worthy about everything all the time that he bores you to tears.”

“Since the only true love of my life is you, I just have to look elsewhere. Since you refuse to stop being heterosexual.” Dramatic, smirking. They play this game constantly.

“If Shae disappears, in my heartbreak I may give you a pity shag. Anyway, I’m not so much bear as dwarf hamster over here. You’d destroy me.” They start giggling - helpless - drunkenly.

“Speaking of squashing,” Varys says, wiping his eyes elegantly with a silk handkerchief, “who will capture Brienne? I am torn between Tor’s worship and Jaime getting in with some deliciously angry hate-sex.”

Tyrion knows that tone, that archness that makes him put his drink down and tilt his head with interest. He takes a handful of pretzels and munches, avidly. “Go on, what do you know?”

“Selwyn Tarth, who I know socially because obviously I know everyone, has told me, on father’s authority, that our young Brienne used Jaime to get through what Daddy described as ‘the puberty from hell’. Posters on her wall, constantly saying how wonderful he is, how brilliant at rugby, how she wanted to meet him. All of the star-struck teenage girl fantasies that our Brienne had were directed straight at your handsome brother."

“Stranger, Jaime was her wank fantasy? Do girls even have wank fantasies?” He boggles at his friend, before his over-large mouth twists into something resembling hideous amusement. “And so she finally meets him, and he is a drunk sister-shagging loudmouth? Poor cow.”

“But the residual desire remains. Jaime, for all his sins, is bloody and ridiculously gorgeous. Even if he is missing certain appendages that I have been told are useful for foreplay, like the dominant hand.” Varys, since Tyrion has known him, has eschewed physical relationships. After all,sex is; very unhygienic, unseemingly sticky, and downright difficult to shift from silk. It is a wonder he doesn’t ask everyone to bleach themselves before he deigns to grace them with his presence, though quite often he will randomly attack people with alcohol gel when in one of his moods. 

Both men wear identical expressions approaching vicious glee as something dawns, bright and savage.

“And then there is Tormund. Alpha males at dawn - you wouldn’t, V?”

“Darling, I would. Cats. Pigeons. Amongst. Hilarity ensues, obviously.”

Pimms magically arrives, and they divide the fruit between them eagerly.

“You just want the world to burn.”

“Whilst maintaining stability for all I care for, of course. Perhaps it will shake Jaime out of that awful Cersei-induced funk he has been wading in for the last Gods knows how long. It will be for the good of the team, but I do love drama, darling. You know I am a whore for drama. Absolute slut of epic proportions.”

 

* * *

  
  


Davos should be here.

Stannis feels a lazy stab of want in his lower belly.

Davos in camo. Davos with dirt smeared across his face, sweating and filthy, pipe in his mouth as he looks up from the command table with bright warm eyes. The province is in flames, and only Captain Seaworth, borrowed by the Army from the Special Boat Services of the Stormlands Navy, can save the day. His civilian advisor, Stannis Baratheon, will do anything for this grubby hero in those wickedly attractive combat boots and khaki t-shirt snug over his shoulders.

He grits his teeth, trying not to think of being rumpled by dirty hands dragging at his pristine suit and wrecking his neatly pressed shirt, and being pushed over the desk in some godsforsaken Essosi hellhole as Davos’ co-

“I notice you grind your jaw,” Brienne murmurs softly. She looks concerned, and the guilt descends like a trapdoor on an unsuspecting plastic mouse of his youth. “I know some really good therapists who deal with this sort of thing, if you need someone to talk to?”

She is earnest, and honest, and he appreciates having her about. Brienne brings a touch of well-meaning sense to everything. With her Stannis has opened up marginally, can be slightly more relaxed in his manner. The only other person to elicit such a response is Davos. Not that Stannis wishes to have sex with Brienne. His tastes in women run towards big-breasted redheads who teach yoga and need to have restraining orders filed when they reach peak obsessiveness. Sansa Stark’s hair sometimes sends him into a tizzy of spiraling desire. Not her. Just her hair. Sod the rest of her, since she isn’t Davos.

Also being punched by a jealous Sandor would really hurt. The man has a fist the size of a boiled ham.

“Unfortunately I find it an excellent stress relief.”

“Here,” and she scrabbles in her jeans pocket, finds her wallet - of course Brienne doesn’t have a purse - and presses a card into his hand. “She’s my psychologist, she’s very good.”

“Thank you, Brienne. I appreciate it.”

She smiles, shifts awkwardly. If Stannis squints, and he does because of the sun and because he refuses to wear sunglasses, she looks like an overly-grown sixth form schoolboy.

“You’re my friend, I want you to be okay. I don’t want you ruining your teeth if something can be done about it.”

Between them they have few friends, and Stannis understands the hugeness of her statement for both of them. Brienne is caught between worlds; too masculine as a rule, and therefore mocked or ignored. He himself is so tightly wound and private that friends just never seem to happen. Both are equally lonely, he supposes, and that can create tight bonds between those who allow their guard to slip. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he manages to get out.

Since Stannis has no idea what else to do, he offers his hand. To his eternal gratefulness Brienne does not hesitate to shake it.

Then Jaime Lannister turns up, and everything goes to hell. Again.

 

* * *

 

Tormund is quite swift for an overgrown Wildling, but Jaime is faster. He puts his head down, driving from the core, powering across the pristine green of the conference centre and leaving large divots in the plush emerald grass. There are signs politely asking guests to refrain walking upon the croquet lawn, but Jaime hurdles them without a second thought.

Behind him comes the battlecry of Beyond the Wall, and he dodges instinctively, changes direction.

Looks back, smugly.

Shit.

Fine. Revise the first statement.

Tormund is quite swift for an overgrown Wilding, and Jaime is faster, but this is now turning into a slog up towards the hotel and the bastard ginger is gaining. Alcohol and not being arsed to train seems to have an impact, dammit. Who’d have ever thought getting pissed and eating your own weight in chocolate could knock the natural fitness of an athlete? This is Tyrion’s fault. He owns a pub, that has beer and chocolate. If he were not around beer and chocolate, Jaime is sure he would be perfectly fine.

That would mean having to buy booze from supermarkets, like some sort of peasant. It is far more palatable to give his brother the vast amounts of money he spends, rather than funding a soulless multinational enterprise that may be cheaper but doesn’t put him in the recovery position when necessary.

Blue flashes, and he spies Brienne gaping at them both like an overgrown and exceptionally ugly guppy fish.

Use the Force, Luke.

Use Brienne.

Tywin is Emperor Palpatine more than Vader. At least Vader has some semblance of a heart. If he himself is Luke, which he does not feel is his thing, this defaults Cersei (bitch. Don’t think about her!) to Princess Leia. He is unsure which one he has wanked over more; Cersei in general, or Leia Organa in her bikini. Once he asked his dear sister to cosplay for him since Jaime sees himself more as Han Solo and that would have been really sexy, but she turned him down with a glare that sent his intestines to frozen shards of ‘oh shit, this is where I die.’ Then she fucked him, to demonstrate to her darling twin that he best not look at any other women, fantasies or not, because Jaime belonged to her.

Not any more, though. Not since Clegane and the Hand Incident.

It is about now he really needs a drink.

Tyrion as Yoda would be funny as fuck.

“Brienne!” he yells, panting and sweaty and flinging himself into her surprised arms. “Save me from Tormund, he’s gone all Wildling!”

“Brienne! Let me shoot him in the face!” 

Brienne is reassuringly sturdy, and he slithers behind her, making faces at Giantsbane over her shoulder. With his arms about her waist, he can feel the heaviness of her abs, the strength in her back and glutes. For a moment he is dizzyingly jealous at her fitness levels, and slightly confused. She is built like one of those poncy High Valyrian statues, but without the tiny penis. Hopefully. He can never tell these days.

She feels unlike Cersei.

Totally unlike Cersei, who is curves and undulations. Brienne is flat planes. Refreshingly un-Cersei-like.

“Mr. Lannister,” and her voice is just on the wrong side of trembling. The way they fit together, like pieces of one of those Gods-awful jigsaw puzzles that Tommen loves, means that parts of his anatomy fit flush with parts of her anatomy. For a split-second he sees them both naked, against a wall. Brienne is the perfect height for some really impressive sex. Impressive, athletic, manly sex. Against walls. In shower cubicles. That confuses him even more, in the worst way possible. “Would you please stop using me as a shield?”

Shit. Shitshitshit.

Erection. Shit. Go away!

“It’s all Giantsbane’s fault!” Deflection from the erection. Blame something else. If questioned, say he gets turned on by being chased by big men with guns. It is better than admitting that Brienne gives him a hard-on. The wench is ugly. Big. Clumsy. Brilliant at rugby, where she flows and crunches and dominates with a twist of her lean hips and perfect line out technique. Beautiful blue eyes. Ugly. Intelligent, knows what she is on about most of the time. Honourable. Decent. Ugly. Great body. Nice. Not Cersei at all.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

Jaime is far too sober for this. Tyrion confiscated his hip flask with an ugly smirking grin, the horrible little bastard.

“He shot me in the face. I just want to shoot him!” The big redhead shrugs, massive shoulders rolling under camo. His eyes keep flicking to where Jaime’s hand lies across Brienne’s stomach, fingers splayed. The digits tighten, just a little, without being told, and the woman gives a tiny noise deep in her throat.

He also has no idea why Tyrion and Varys are pissing themselves laughing. Drunk. Why can’t he be drunk? Sobriety is not all it is cracked up to be.

“I will not unhand the wench!”

“I’ll rescue you, Brienne!”

Tor throws his rifle down. Grins. Brienne makes another of those little noises, caught between a squeak and a groan.

His cock twitches with gleeful fascination. His cock hates him.  

“Piss off, Giantsbane, go and play with Sandor and Beric like a good boy.”

“For Hardhome!”

Having Brienne and Tormund landing on top of him, especially on concrete, is a really bad idea. They are heavy, and muscular, and overly-strong, and there is wriggling. That does not help his erection, which he is now more than happy to have sticking in Brienne’s back; otherwise it would be rammed into Giantsbane’s overly-developed thigh, and that would create a myriad of problems. Fine joking about these sorts of things, yes, but having physical evidence basically frotting against the man who is dully aware has affection for his wench?

Where did that come from? His wench?

Shit. Shitshitshit.

It is only because Brienne is the Anti-Cersei. Not because he wants to shag her. Not because he wants to take her to dinner to argue the finer points of international rugby regulations. Nothing like that at all. Nope.

Shit.

Bootsteps, and he sees a shining pair of regulation army boots, before fingers find his ear and he is fished out of the scrum by Beric. It hurts. It always does. Dondarrion has the inate ability to find the perfectly painful part of his lobe and direct accordingly. Thankfully the soreness quells his enthusiastic trouser reaction, and by the time he is on his feet, there is no evidence of anything untoward within his pants.

“Jaime,” he sighs, shaking his head and smiling in that little way of his. “Don’t be a dick? And you, Tor.”

Beric has both of them controlled with just his thumbs and forefingers, like some sort of kindly avenging angel of masochism. Jaime has no idea, if the man can do this, why he likes being tied up and spanked or whatever he gets up to in his free time. Surely that man could dominate the world like some overly-earnest headmaster? Detention for the warring factions in eastern Essos, writing ‘I must not try and invade other countries because it is very naughty,’ and the world would be a safer, more happy place.

“Thank you, Beric.” Brienne, flushed and rumpled, and her shirt has ridden up, and oh Warrior those abs, those insane abs, is helped to her feet by the glowering Stannis. 

“Not at all, Brienne. Shall I return these incalcitrant men to the field?”

“Yes, please.”

She swallows, and refuses to look at Jaime. The redness in her cheeks intensifies.

When did Brienne get fuckable?

Drunk. In the pub. His chin on her shoulder, and she was solid, and dependable, and smelled of mown grass and coconut hair conditioner.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

The realisation, however, is nothing compared to the intensity of Tormund’s greeny-blue glare.

  
Murderous.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

 

The women’s changing rooms echo as Brienne pulls her jersey over her head, checks her sports bra is fastened to within an inch of rib-breaking tightness. She does not usually bother with such underwear, at least not the normal lace-frothing and be-ribboned kind that usually graces the far more ample chests of her female friends. She and Asha Greyjoy have created a pact; if it isn’t sports bras - and Theon’s cool sister is a hockey player, and she has quite the same issue as Brienne when it comes to lack of cleavage, but she flaunts it in a spectacularly androgynous way that makes her seem like Tank Girl, which means people just fall in love with her through sheer power of _don’t give a shitness_ , because she is all strappy tops and combat trousers with biker boots, and if Brienne were tending towards the Sapphic she would be perfectly happy with Asha - then fuck it all. The Tit Liberation Army is go.

She got measured, once. Never again.

Brienne is sensible multipack Marks and Spencers boyshorts in black. She is thermal vests in the frigid wastes of a Westerosi winter. She is men’s socks.

A knock at the door brings her from a trance that is all at once muscular, ginger, and very blond, and she glances up from lacing her boots.

“Are you decent?” Stannis.

“Come in, I’m dressed.” Her shorts are too short, or her legs too long. Ugh. Brienne tugs at them, wishing for an extra four inches to cover bruises and freckles that have interbred and darken her inner thighs. Same with the stripy socks. She must ask Beric - not Tormund, not him, never him, oh she is still so embarrassed by what happened, and slightly turned on, and she will never admit that in a million lifetimes - where he gets his kit.

She still cannot look Jaime in the face. Not when she’s had that bit of him grinding against the top of her bum, and his hand playing across her stomach.

Most women would kill to be in a sandwich of the two men. Brienne just finds everything horribly embarrassing, with a side order of squirmy.

Stannis is in a rugby shirt, though with the fading and well-loved air it obviously does not belong to him. The jersey is neatly tucked in to jeans which look suspiciously new and unsullied. Brienne wonders if the urge to iron a crease down the front of them drove the man a little mad before giving in to the allure of comfortable denim with a frustrated anger.

“Just thought I would wish you luck before you went onto the field.”

“Thank you.”

The pause, awkward, lingers.

“...d’you mind if I stay in here for a little while?” The jaw grinds, the hands tighten into white knuckles.

“No, of course not, Mr. Baratheon.” They have not quite moved to being on first name terms, but are stepping about the issue very politely. She shifts over on the long polished bench, even though there are many others that Stannis could pick, but he settles beside her. “I’ve never seen you without a tie before.”

“Davos insisted I move forward with the new era of rugby by embracing the team spirit a little more, therefore I am wearing a King’s shirt. He says that it suits me, but-”

Stannis sighs. The nerves jangle between them; the outsiders. He looks even more tense than usual, the lines about his eyes that in another man could be caused by laughter deepening.

“It does not help that we are playing Highgarden. Renly is here, and Loras. Not that I am disgusted with their relationship, of course. What two men do in the comfort and security of their own home is nothing to do with me. However, my brother did forsake his family’s team to go to the Tyrell’s, and that still sticks in my craw. He is out there, laughing, wearing that idiotic pink and purple, and riling my players, Miss Tarth. Our players. Who seem perfectly happy to see him.” He pauses, shoulders curling forward. “They always prefered him over me.”

“The players respect you. I respect you.”

She could really do without Stannis having a breakdown over Renly’s treachery. Any time but now, fine. Just, really, not now. Brienne is, by nature, a good woman. She listens, takes time for others. Cares. When ten minutes from playing a friendly rugby game against the sworn enemy, however? Really really could do without this. She thinks for a moment as the pause widens, seizes upon a strategy that will bring comfort to her boss and hopefully will mean no moping Baratheon wandering about like an angry storm cloud all game. When pressed, there can be deviousness within the Tarth soul. Not often, and she will feel guilty as anything afterwards, but needs must.

“Davos respects you, very much. Far more than anyone else he knows, I’m sure of it.”

Sneaky.

Stannis blinks, and the faintest pink flushes his neck.

“He lent me this rugby shirt.” His hand tangles into the worn softness of the jersey, wrapping the flesh into a cocoon of red.

“That was very kind of him.”

“Davos is a very good man. Decent sort.”

Brienne encourages gently, for both their sakes. “Distinguished.”

“Very distinguished. It comes from being in the Navy; it gives a man a certain military bearing that can never been undone. Davos really does have an excellent posture.”

“I think he is possibly the nicest man that I know.”

“Not possibly,” Stannis almost snaps, but his eyes are soft and milky and full of something. Brienne stops herself from squeeing with the weird cuteness of Stannis Baratheon having a fanboy moment. “Definitely is the nicest. Davos is a paragon, above all others. He is perfect.”

A pause, a widening of the blue Baratheon eyes as Stannis processes exactly what he has divulged. Brienne hugs herself, a tiny smile playing on her lips, even if she wants to grab the man’s shoulders, shake him, and tell him to go and snog the face off Davos Seaworth before that innate repression explodes messily, or some sort of terrible thing happens and there is no middle-aged kissing. There has to be middle-aged kissing. Just has to be.

Brienne totally ships it.

 

* * *

 

The Wives and Girlfriends gather around Willas excitedly, led by Ellaria. She is tall, and very beautiful, and has the sort of cleavage a man could ski down. Before her sheer gorgeousness he feels rather plain and understated, like a drab blackbird compared to a splendid robin. It is like being with Loras all over again, but with breasts. Not that Loras doesn’t sometimes have breasts. Varys can be very persuasive when it comes to good cheekbones, drag, and the promise of a lot of beer. Also Renly likes a man in heels.

Willas’ brain starts to atrophy at the thought.

“You are him?”

“Pardon?”

“You are my Oberyn’s little Tyrell?”

“Um?”

“Adorable,” she breaths, ruffling his hair. “Aren’t you just precious? He said you are, and he is correct.” The syllables are very similar; the Dornish do have a way of speaking, after all. It is odd hearing the speech patterns emerging from someone not Oberyn. “I might have to keep you to myself. Perhaps we shall share you, yes?”

“Um?!”

A grin, and she has ridiculously white teeth.

“Fuck’s sake, Ell, stop teasing the poor bugger.” Asha stomps over, her mohican dyed red and black for the occasion, slinging a tattooed arm across Willas’ quailing shoulders. “You know Tyrell types aren’t poly.”

“I really have no idea what is going on.” Willas really has no clue. He isn’t the best in crowds.

“Come with me, we’ll go and get an ice cream and sit with someone who doesn’t want to shag you, babe. Or at least not shag you with your boyfriend at the same time, yeah?” Asha is strangely soothing, and takes control, and Willas likes that in a person. He has found out many things about his nature since Oberyn exploded into his life like some surface to air missile aimed at a rather fretful passing goose. There have been quiet ventures into silk handkerchieves and Oberyn in riding boots, all hot and sweaty after exercising his horses.

Which should be illegal. Seriously. Willas might die one day because of it, and that wouldn’t be fair, because Oberyn in riding boots is just.

Just.

There are no words, even in Willas Tyrell’s extensive vocabulary, which covers several languages, living and dead, to describe that vision.

“I like your tattoos.”

“Theon nicked the idea off me, got ‘em on his chest, but he’s such a whiny bitch he won’t get his nipples tattooed. I got mine pierced and didn’t flinch. Ironborn my arse.”

“But I thought Theon liked pain? He hangs around Ramsay?” Oberyn is the best for gossip. It is as if Willas knows everyone, and it is a nice way into making conversation, at which he is never that good. Too much time studying in university and not enough time getting laid or interacting with real people. The Westernet doesn’t count as a friend, apparently. Neither do books, but they are still very much his favourite people.

“My little brother is a pussy. What he thinks he wants and what he really wants are totally different things. He should hook up with Robb or someone. Someone,” and her voice thickens to the point of distaste, “fluffy.”

“You don’t sound like you like Theon much?” he ventures, and Asha snorts.

“He’s a wanker, but he’s my wanker. Got to give the little brother shit, haven’t you? Bet you torment the shit out of yours.”

“Um. Have you met my little brother?”

“So so gay.”

“Ah, you have.”

She pauses, tilts her head, eyes laser-sharp and calculating.

“I can get Bronn to stand on him, if you want?” Casual violence flows easily from her tongue.

Willas remembers endless episodes of being teased, and tormented, and mocked. He loves his brother, though it is more filial duty than actual like. For all of his life he has been the sensible one, the calm and good-natured one. The one that apologises constantly. The one that has an excellent career and has to breed highborn children with a random upper-class woman to propagate the Tyrell legacy. The less attractive one, who gets prodded for being not as lovely than his siblings because of the genetic lottery. The one endlessly ragged on by the twin terrors of Loras and Margaery.

Though Oberyn says he is beautiful, which makes him exist in a state of permanent blushing, and he does feel it these days because having worshipping Dornishmen pinning him down and growling how gorgeous he is in his ear does make Willas wonder if he is actually nice looking.

Revenge. Vengeance. It sounds so tempting.

“A kick to the shin, or something?” Is that too hardcore?

“Good bloke.” Asha nods.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising, dipshit.” The slap about the back of his head stings, but in an affectionate way.

 

* * *

 

“Lannister.”

“Baratheon.”

All of the Baratheon brood greets him this way. It gets boring after a while.

“How are things?” Renly smirks, confident arsehole, the stupid Highgarden shirt snug to his body. Just because Mace Tyrell throws money about like water doesn’t mean that the team is any good, does it? They’ve had to poach Gregor Clegane from the Harrenhal boys, and that is usually a last resort for anyone. The Clegane brothers have been snarling at each other for the last ten minutes. Luckily Beric and the frankly enormous and fat chef who Highgarden have roped in to play for them lurk near, chatting about eclairs and choux pastry and the importance of cold hands. Though what Benjen Stark has to do with any of this, Jaime has no idea.

Jaime hopes Varys doesn’t see the chef. Combining the man’s love of food and big lads into one package could break the universe.

“They’ve been worse. You?”

“Just looking forward to the sweet taste of victory.” Another of those insufferable looks, and Jaime idly wonders if his stump is hard enough to break Renly’s face.

“Such a shame you’ll lose then, isn’t it?”

“King’s Landing has lost every game since I moved to Highgarden.”

“The power of Loras’ cock compels thee.”

“Really Jaime, thinking of Loras’ cock? I wouldn’t have thought it your sort of thing. How is Cersei?”

Bastard. Absolutely bastardly fuckface smug arrogant bastard.

“No idea. How’s Robert?”

Take that!

“Drunk, like you.”

Dammit.

The smiles do not waver, but become rather more forced, more rigid than Varys in a shoe shop. Jaime has never liked Renly. Good player, yes, but too up his own arse, and then Loras’, to be any proper use. He always chafed under Stannis’ leadership, so him going off on his own to lead his own team never came as that much of a surprise. Neither did the rampant Tyrell shagging, either.

“Ah, Renly,” purrs a voice, and to be perfectly frank Jaime could have kissed Oberyn at that moment. Martell carries two ice creams, and what looks like a love bite, and a very broad grin. “How wonderful to see you. Have you seen Willas?”

“Why would I see Willas?” Renly looks as thick as two short planks when confused.

“I have an ice cream for him.” He licks his own, does something obscene with his tongue whilst staring straight at the Baratheon man.

“He went off with Asha. Why is Willas here? He hates rugby.”

Jaime realises that Oberyn realises that Renly has no idea that Oberyn is shagging Willas. The moment is beautiful, mostly because he knows exactly what the cunning Martell is up to. He himself is not averse to tactical warfare, and underhand techniques. He could never have become so bloody good if he wasn’t a bit of a bastard - no, a lot of a bastard. It is the entire reason, after all, that Gregor Clegane smashed his hand to substrate. A little bit of an overreaction, yes, but understandable given what Jaime hissed in his ear.

Oberyn merely smiles, perfectly evil, and licks his ice cream in the most phallic way possible.

Watching horror bloom across Renly’s face is the most delicious _schadenfreude_ ever. Especially as he goes racing off, screaming for Loras.

“You’re a legend, Oberyn.”

“Ah, pretty boy, I shall demand my tribute later.” He presses a slightly sugar-sticky kiss to Jaime’s temple, and wanders away to cause more carnage. Or to give Willas an ice cream. Possibly his cock. Who knows?

Grinning to himself, Jaime almost misses Brienne emerging, red-faced and seriously leggy, from the women’s changing rooms.

Finds himself with another erection because those legs have been wrapped around his hips in every dream sequence since the team building. Dream!Wench is passionate, and gives as good as she gets, and they often throw each other about before getting to the main action. There is ridiculous amounts of snarking, and sniping, and the sex is angry and hate-filled, and the kisses - why does he want to kiss her ugly face? - hungry. Why does he have this thing for hate-sex? Ah yes. Cersei (don’t think of her, don’t think of her, think of something else).

Sometimes there is pegging.

He doesn’t have to try and think of the pegging, because it just pops up at inopportune times. He prevaricates wildly, a strange fervour of being worried about dildoes going near him, and really wanting to see what would happen if Brienne came at him wielding a strap-on like some medieval weapon. In his head he calls the thing Brightroar, and she promises to make him scream.

“My shorts are too short,” she hisses as she strides past him.

“Looks like your thighs have been doing ten rounds with Ramsay,” he calls back, cheerfully, willing his cock to stop trying to burst through the zip of his now uncomfortably tight jeans. At least they are of a clinginess that binds things down so tightly any dodgy bumps do not show through his rugby shirt, which he hastily pulled out of being tucked in. Thank the Gods for rigid denim, if not rigid little Kingslayer.

The back view is more spectacular than having to look at her face. Brienne has possibly the best arse known to man, and probably would look better on someone with a penis, but then the pegging makes itself known. Again.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

 

* * *

 

Ramsay fizzes quietly, shifting from toe to toe, and Beric knows exactly what is going through his head.

“Try not to bite anyone today? Especially not Edd.” Poor Edd. Today Brienne has given him command of the forwards for the first time since Tollett works so well in his new position, and he doesn’t seem to remember that he is an under-captain. He looks shocked and lost when the others ask him for tactics, and glances about hopefully for someone else to answer the question.

“Tastes of fish,” Bolton mutters. He works himself into a frenzy before games. He tends to bite through his gumshield. Legend is that he sharpens his teeth for the best vampire-type grip, but Beric knows the pointiness is a mix of genetics and mad dentistry.

“If you need to bite someone, come and find me, and you can chew on my hand for a little while.” His arm ends up around the rigid shoulders as usual, fingers in the dark hair, and he feels the tension leaching inch by inch.

Someone wolf whistles, and Ramsay bristles, snapping at the air like an angry turtle.

“Only Loras.”

“Perfumed fucking ponce.”

“Definitely don’t bite him, you know he tastes awful and makes you queasy.”

Teeth graze his bicep, sending a lovely curling warmth all the way up Beric’s spine. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he suggested to Ramsay that perhaps they should make things official, but he is aware of his friend’s little obsession with that Greyjoy waste of space, and Dondarrion is nothing but understanding of the feelings of others. Frustratingly for himself, yes, but he prefers to think of others.

“It’s okay if you need,” Beric murmurs. “Best someone who likes it rather than being sent off, isn’t it?”

He spends much of his time as damage control, on and off the field. Ramsay blindly bites whatever bit of flesh comes too near, and Bronn cynically kneecaps. Tor tends towards the overenthusiastically Northern. Drogo bulldozes, snickering. Sam frets, which makes Pod fret, and often Beric administers tea and gentle bollockings to the frankly nicest members of the team. Sandor is technically well-behaved, but matches against Gregor remove whatever modicum of restraint he has. Oberyn has been known to get off with random opposing players, mostly when scrums are happening and he is bored. Theon smokes joints and gets any students in the vicinity as giggly as himself.

In real life, and not rugby, he is lovingly plagued by those needing advice. Not just players. Sometimes girlfriends or wives. Siblings. Even parents - meeting Cat Stark under such circumstances was a tad bizarre, really. Trying to explain Sandor to the woman proved most trying.

“You taste the best out of everyone.” Another spike of warmth, in his gut; evidence of that thing that veers a bit too near emotional attachment to a psychopath.

“...Hang on - Edd tastes of fish?”

“Jellied eels.” He shrugs, looking up. Ramsay is short, though most people tend not to tell him that. They know not to poke the beast. Sometimes when he isn’t being thorough enough with his beatings, Beric teases him for his short-arsedness.

Beric thinks it rather alluring to be dominated by someone about a foot shorter than himself.

“That is rather an acquired taste, then. What do I taste of?”

A pause, and those pale eyes blink lizard-slow, before Ramsay grins. He is wild, and feral, and exactly like in those private moments in their cozy dungeon where Beric is in the stocks and his Master is wearing enough hide to possibly endanger a local small herd of cows.

“You taste of me ‘cause I own you, bitch.”

Only Beric can take that as romantic. Which he does.

 

* * *

 

Brienne in shorts.

Shorts. Brienne.

Brienne. Shorts.

She stands before them, the marshall of her forces. A blonde-haired conqueror, an angel of rugby prowess, the most wondrous thing Tormund has ever seen in his almost thirty years of existence. He has known strong women, of course. He is distantly related to Ygritte, after all, and she is nails. Asha, as well, who even Tor is slightly intimidated by since she has pierced nipples and talks about having her tongue bifurcated just to freak everyone out. Bronn is happy about it due to the quality of blow job it promises. Tormund’s Mum is ace. Terrifying in the way of the Mothers of the Free Folk, of course, but Mum is brilliant. She once killed a bear with her bare hands.

Tormund says he slept with a bear, but Varys claims all of the bears of King’s Landing for his own sexual deviancy.

Brienne has a scar on her knee that is the exact shape as Bear Island. He wants to kiss it. And her freckles. And her. All over. Worship her.

If this was just wanting to have sex with the woman, everything would be so much easier. A quick snog, a grope, a nice bonk somewhere, and it’d all be over. This visceral attraction goes much further than a sneaky quickie in a pub loo. He finds himself daydreaming about having ridiculously hearty and very tall children, all redheads with bright blue eyes. They could go to re-enactment events together, where Tormund gets to wear the armour of his ancestors and wield an enormous two-handed greataxe. Brienne can have a morningstar, and ride a great big horse, and rescue him from the White Walkers with her honourable knightly prowess.

He is happily in the middle of thinking of baby names when it happens.

Tormund doesn’t actually realise what his mouth says until his brain engages about five seconds later.

“Pardon?” Brienne stares at him, cheeks flaming scarlet.

He grins because what else can he do but run with this, eyebrows waggle, and repeats himself.

“Mr. Giantsbane, we are trying to play a rugby match-”

The other players start talking excitedly, all at once, and even when the whistle shrills to signify the kick-off, they are chattering.

 

* * *

 

Shit. Shitshitshit.

Tormund Fucking Giantsbane just asked Brienne out on a date.

His wench! His!

He wonders if hamstringing the big ginger bastard is an option.

No one asks Brienne out on a date and gets away with it.

He needs a drink.

Fuck you, Tyrion! Little shit has his hipflask, hasn’t he, and he’s not even at the pitchside. Stannis wouldn’t have anything. The squirty hand cleanser looks tempting. Don’t they lock them up at hospitals to stop addicts trying to drink themselves to death on it?

Gendry scores a try. Good lad. Renly isn’t looking so frigging smug now, the little cocky arsehole.

Theon gets the conversion with a lazy kick that has Jon looking rather admiringly. Theon is looking at Ramsay who is looking at Beric who is talking animatedly with the fat chef about lemon cakes and buttercream icing recipes.

His wench! She is smashing her way through everything so brilliantly, sweat-streaked and grass-greened along her chest. Even her ugly maw looks more attractive because she seems so relaxed and at ease and in control of her destiny. The way she moves, like liquid silk - isn’t that a lube? Shit? Wrong comparison. The way she moves, like molten steel, those sturdy limbs precise and pushing.

Brienne is sex on a stick. Not a literal stick, because splinters. But he’d lick her like a lollipop and she’d not even need to shower. Which is weird. Usually he prefers women - Cersei, no one else ever, technically he is almost a virgin - clean and fresh and sweetly perfumed. But as Brienne is the Anti-Cersei, he seems to find the opposite really rather hot.

A finger finds his jaw, and his teeth click together as a tall redhaired man - not Tor, thankfully, because Jaime would have smacked him in the face with his clipboard - gently closes his mouth. The newcomer, older than him and sunburned-freckled across his entire face, is all too bloody familiar. Shit.

“Stop staring at the curiously genderbending woman, Lannister.”

“I’m not, I’m agog at how good we are,” he lies.

“You’re doing bloody well,” the other says; a grizzled silvery bearded veteran all in black with stylized ebony-scaled fishes splashing across his bicep. Double shit. “Got to give it to you, the team changes are brilliant. So’s the woman. Selwyn’s girl? She moves like her Dad. Didn’t Red try and go out with her once, and she broke his nose?”

“Hyle got his nose broken, Ron just got yelled at.” The redhead smirks, almost viciously. “Sensible girl told them both where to go. Rugby camps for teenages, a cesspit of hormones.”

“Stop scouting my players!” Other people tried to touch his wench? How very dare they! Hyle and Red Ronnet will be first against the wall come the revolution, he decides, jealousy rearing a very handsome head. No, scratch that. Tormund frigging Giantsbane is the first to die.

The Blackfish, grim as ever, almost smiles. No one in the history of everything is as gruff as Brynden Tully. He nods uncle-ishly at Robb Stark, who gives a tiny wave of recognition before being run over by one of the Redwyne twins.

“Coffee, Jaime?” Connington, who is constantly attached to caffeine in the way certain Lannisters are drip-fed booze, carries a Thermos.

“Got anything stronger?”

“Thought you looked suspiciously sober, Kingslayer.” Blackfish eyes him thoughtfully. The bastard always makes Jaime feel about three inches high, probably because Tully Knows Everything about his sordid rugby-playing past. As he was there, coaching the forwards in the international side, being a thorn in Jaime’s youthful side, and stalking about as taciturn as he is now.

“Only coffee for you,” Connington adds. Jon played, once, before Rhaegar Targaryen broke his heart, ran off with Lyanna Stark, named their son after his ‘best friend’ cum devotee. Jaime understands. Unrequited anything is a bitch, but when it is love it really has to sting.

“First you come and try and steal my players for the bloody county team, and then you don’t give me booze. Bugger off and get me an ice cream or something, before I go medieval with my clipboard.”

Brienne throws a perfect line out, as graceful at flinging the ball as she is on the pitch. Sandor bludgeons his way through the Highgarden ranks, straight into his brother, who is neatly removed from his path by the obviously terrified but entirely brave Sam and Pod. Good boys.

Jon slides his hand into Jaime’s back pocket, takes the change therein, doesn’t even grope. He never does.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Stop putting your change there then.” A matey slap to the arse, fingers thick and calloused. Jon leaves his precious Thermos and a manly press of hands with the Blackfish, collecting ice cream orders, disappearing into the thronging crowds.

“Control your whatever he is, Brynden.”

“No.” Another threat of amusement, a baring of slightly crooked teeth.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Scouting for the Stormlands. That lad Gendry, he’s good.” He runs his eye appreciatively over the young man; nothing sexual. He has never met anyone as devoted to his partner as Brynden Tully to Jon Connington. They are sickeningly attached.

“Can’t have him.”

“I’ll take the gir-”

“You keep your hands off that wench, or I will end you.” The worse come out sharp and chippy.

Watching the Blackfish grin is a frightening thing.

Deflect! Deflect!

“Take Tormund though, the big ginger one. You like redheads. You can start a collection.” It would do everyone a favour. Especially Jaime.

 

* * *

 

Brienne, still in shock, jogs to the touchline where Jaime is frantically waving at her. She is dripping sweat, and her shirt is sticking to her in all the wrong places, and Gregor Clegane raked her hip with his studs with a malevolence that frankly terrifies her, but they did it.

They won.

Easily, in the end. Highgarden are stunned like mullets and her boys are going mad with pride.

Arya Stark stages a pitch invasion and is attached, like a very determined limpet, to Pod’s face.

Renly goggles at her theatrically, then his handsome face splits into a wide grin, arms wrapping her into a overheated and very damp gloopiness of a hug. It feels like the old times, when she was quite in love with him at school. He is reassuringly comforting, broad shouldered and bearded, and the cuddle is welcomed. No bad blood between them, even with the thrashing of his team and the lingering remembrance of her puppyish devotion to a man almost as gay as the Highgarden purple and pink shirts.

“You deserved it,” he says, and there is a certain warmth in his voice. “You were incredible, Bri.” Brienne soaks up the compliment, since it still means so very much to her. Several years of idolizing Renly can do that to a woman. He still lingers as her first real love, even if it came to nothing. He once told her if Brienne was a boy, he’d have definitely dated her. Penises are quite important, however, to a man who specialises in going out with people who own them.

“Renly you big gay loser! We won. We won! Wench! Come here!”

She is prised from Renly’s arms by an invading stump, and Jaime is beaming down at her. He is beautiful. Simply so beautiful that she cannot believe he is an actual real person. His looks, even softened by the lack of exercise and booze, are godly and wonderful and heartbreaking. Everything fades compared to Jaime. He is sunshine, and gold, and an undercurrent of something dangerous and addictive.

“We won! We sodding well won!” For a moment the world whirls, before she realises that Lannister has her in his arms and is spinning her giddily about as if she weighs nothing at all. He smells of chocolate and leather, of something understated and masculine. “You were bloody amazing. You-”

The kiss is a shock, and she doesn’t respond to it because she has no idea what she is supposed to do, and it is over in a second of heated lips and gleaming emerald eyes. His mouth is hard and crushing, demanding for that brief and endless moment where Jaime Lannister is kissing her like in those fevered fantasies of a fourteen year old girl. He beams at her in his burning triumph before releasing her to go and taunt Renly some more.

Jaime kissed her. She didn’t kiss him back, but perhaps she should have?

Tormund asked her out on a date. She didn’t say yes, but perhaps she should?

What the actual fuck is happening?

This doesn’t seem like some sort of bet. Not like at rugby camp.

Brienne loses herself to her confusion.

 

* * *

 

Jon drinks coffee, scribbling marginal notes next to Brynden’s spidery writing. For two teams who are nothing but amateurs playing at the sport, the resulting match was impressive. They saw several potentials for the county side, who the Blackfish will approach in the next few weeks.

“Gendry, definitely.” Brynden has his arm draped along the back of Jon’s seat, fingertips resting lightly on the heavily muscled shoulder. Every so often he strokes the tanned nape, scritching into the short clipped hair. “He’s high quality, shouldn’t be stuck here. Tollett, I’d say too, but he’s got a real job.” A snort, pure derision. “Daft bastard’d never give up a job for rugby, but I know Gendry would. Asked Martell for the low-down. Gendry’s a motorbike mechanic, so nothing much to really leave behind. The Redwyne twins aren’t too bad, but I think they could be right little shits. Whichever one ran over Robb should have his balls kicked into his pelvic cavity.”

“You know who the best player is, we both do.” Grey eyes meet brown as Jon cuts through everything with his precision. The Blackfish is liable to ramble when in his scouting mood; usually he is the strong and silent type, ready with a sharp one-liner to slash grown men to size.

“Do you want to piss off Stannis Baratheon that much?”

Jon grins, and is curiously impish for a man approaching fifty who once played international rugby under the Aerys Targaryen regime. “We’ve pissed off more dangerous men than him, sweetling. Remember what happened with Barristan when we stole Jaime?”

“Aye. Still.” Brynden nods, steals the pen, writes in his heavy hand and circles vigorously. “This is our focus, even more than Gendry though I want him too. This is the talent we need at Stormlands, who deserves more than this. Shit, this could change the face of rugby forever, duck. Throw everything, no expense.”

Just one name, in slashed capital letters.

_Brienne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one, and nothing to do with this fic - just a sort of poll.
> 
> If someone was to venture into the Star Wars/Game of Thrones crossover *coughs shiftily*, which families would be Empire, and which would be Rebel Alliance? We are probably looking at the original trilogy more than Episode VII. I have this image of Darth Tywin in my head that is not shifting, and it is a certain fox that swims that put it there. I have a list, but I'd like to see how you lot would fit people in. Obviously there are traitors to either side. 
> 
> If you need me, I shall be on Mos Eisley poking Bronn into Mandalorian armour.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

 

_Imagine you are walking through a forest. It is a beautiful warm day, but not overly so, just a gentle caress of sunlight upon your arms as it dapples through the trees. Under your feet are soft leaves, and they rustle as you move. With each step, you feel your body become lighter, as if weight slowly drains from your limbs and torso and into the soil and leaf litter. Take a breath in. Hold it for a few seconds. The air smells of freshness, and damp earth, and pine. That’s it, feel your whole soul revitalise as you exhale. Feel the tension leak into the air, into the forest, leaving your spirit rejuvenated. Visualise yourself, as you follow the narrow path into the forest glade. The air is clean and new. Fresh and pure. Breathe in again, and-_

The phone rings, and Beric is rudely dragged from his meditation. He stares at the screen, sighs, and answers.

“Yes, Tor?”

It is the third time in an hour and a half, and his bro promised not to call again. Tormund is a lying liar.

“Green or red?”

“Pardon?” He is still in the forest. Deciduous, full of oak and alder. Little owls swoop, sparrowhawks predate. The noted naturalist Chris Packham narrates. There are fox cubs, playing. Tormund dragged him away from fox cubs.

“Green or red?!” There is a note of panic in his friend’s voice. “I don’t know which one!”

“Context would be nice?” Irked.

“Shirts.”

“Oh. Shirts. Red might clash, green goes better with the beard.”

“...Bro?”

“...yessss?” He doesn’t want to hear the question, but he knows it’ll be asked. It hangs for moments, like the Sword of Damocles.

“It’s a Thursday night, I know, and you got a thing with Ramsay, and please don’t kill me, but-I’vefgotthisdateandI’mshittingmyselfbro.”

Beric closes his eyes, suppressed a scream of frustration, then looks at his watch.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“You, Dondarrion, are a good man!”

“I am a man of infinite patience, Tor, but it wears thin when you cut into my kink time. I will be bringing Ramsay, and you will be civil.”

“Weird BDSM weirdos. Don’t infect the settee with your weirdness. I’ll get me shirts out. It’ll be like girls doing make overs or something.”

 

* * *

 

Brienne is not the sort of woman able to conjure nice clothes from her ill-equipped wardrobe. In between many pairs of jeans, sensible t-shirts, comfortable rugby jerseys, workout gear, and random old-fashioned things she has worn to various weddings, she is rapidly realising that she hasn’t got a single thing to wear.

Or she has, just not date material.

Not that she actually agreed to going on a date with Tormund Giantsbane, but everyone seemed to think it an excellent idea, so she got swept up in the excitement, and now she is going Out For A Drink with the big prop. To the pub, obviously, because where else will they go? Dinner in a smart restaurant? A film? Necking in the back row of the pictures with Tor is a strange thought. She has never kissed a man with a beard so magnificently Wilding before, so very lush and fierce and almost possessing a presence of its own.

Jaime kissed her.

Brienne realises with a start that she is gently rubbing her lips with her fingertips, and stops immediately, embarrassed. She tells herself off for being stupid and soppy. It is only because they won the match against Highgarden that Jaime Lannister, who is the most gorgeous man in Westeros even if he only has one hand and is a complete and utter bastard and she hates his guts, found his mouth against hers. He doesn’t fancy her, he just was swept up in the moment, like Brienne and this date. There wasn’t even tongues.

She rummages in the endless hope that something suitable might materialise out of the ether.

Tongues and Jaime. The kiss replays, as it has done for a week and a half, and she thinks of what she’d do if there were tongues.

Bite down in shock, possibly.

She turns the colour of an overly-embarrassed tomato, and pulls on a pair of jeans and the blue shirt she wore to the team-building event. It’ll have to do.

 

* * *

  
  
“Green,” they say in unison. Ramsay has raided the fridge, stolen a beer and half a tub of hummus that he is eating with his fingers in lieu of anything crunchy.

“Are you sure? Not blue?” There are lumberjack style shirts everywhere, in all different colours, in piles.

“Blue is Brienne’s colour. I’m sure she’ll be wearing blue” Beric smiles, though it lacks his usual warmth. He explained on the drive over, the self-relaxation CD in the player babbling on about fox cubs, and stoats, and whatever the fuck is this anyway?, his knuckles white on the wheel, that he might not be quite in the usual zone for the night. He has never had to apologise in advance for being off his game, since Beric never is. They are always primed and ready for Thursday nights. Ramsay is pissed off, because he’s been looking forward to using a new and interesting electro-pinwheel, and he now wants to destroy everything in the entire world. He is also aware that Beric is pissed off because Ramsay is verging upon fucking someone’s shit up, and Dondarrion is demonstrating his own irritation with clipped answers and tapping fingers. This, in turn, sets Ramsay even more on edge. They are a never ending circle of winding each other up to further heights of disappointment if they just can’t get down to brutal and bloody business.

Therapy, it seems, is really frigging important to them both, even if it isn’t NHS approved. Ramsay once tried CBT, but was disappointed to find that it seemed to be talking to some nosy bastard rather than savagely kicking men in the balls with his Doc Martens.

Sandor looks around the door frame. Sansa has been at the eyeliner again. He looks like a cock, mostly because he is one.

“Fucking hell. What’s he doing here?” Indicating Ramsay.

“Not beating the shit out of my bitch because this bitch is demanding my bitch’s time. Bitch.” He sucks hummus from his fingers, viciously.

“Fucking psycho.”

“Stop it,” Beric snaps, and something trills in his voice, a note of caution; the ‘don’t push it’ tone that very rarely emerges. Ramsay registers, snarls internally because fuck Sandor Clegane, and kicks straight through the warning with his size eight steel toe-capped boots that he gets Beric to worship every so often when he’s bored and/or too knackered to move.

“Piss off, Flame-Grilled.”

“He is a cunting psychopath. Fucking eating Sansa’s bastard dip. That’s my girlfriend’s dip, you slimy little sadistic short-arsed cunt!”

Oh no. He’s gone there. Sandor Clegane is going down.

A tattooed arm slams across Ramsay’s chest the moment he goes to fling himself at Clegane, fingers curling in his Stiff Little Fingers shirt that Beric got him for his nameday. It is vintage Westwood, should be in a museum somewhere. Flames painted on scarred skin ripple, and he shoves hard hard, but fuck it all Dondarrion is strong. Also, he has an unerring aim for nipples, like he does earlobes, and there is pinching involved.

Bitch.

“He called me short!”

“He’s fucking drinking the fuck out of my fucking beer the little bastard motherfucker!”

Tormund blinks, holding his shirts like red rags to several bulls, and Beric has obviously had enough.

Beric? Beric launches headlong into full lecture mode, expression veering between righteously grumpy and slightly venomous, voice low and snippy and entirely overly reasonable. Disappointment drips.

“You will all stop this right now. All of you. You.” Pointing at Tormund. “Will wear the green shirt with the black jeans and those boots. You will be polite, decent, and not overwhelm the poor woman. You will not try and sleep with her. You will be a gentleman. You.” Pointing at Sandor, who has the sense to step back, hold his hands up placatingly. “Will stop throwing your weight around like some immature teenage idiot. I am sorry about Sansa’s food and your drink. I will restock the beer and the hummus, and you will stop insulting my Ramsay. You will apologise because you are an insufferable dick with a filthy mouth. And you,” and his hand tightens in the t-shirt, and his nipple complains because Ramsay isn’t a pain bitch like Beric, unless it involves bare-knuckle fighting with random drunk chavs on a Saturday night, “will stop antagonising everyone that you come across just because you are not getting your own way. You are also being a dick. Stop it right now. Otherwise I am taking you straight home and leaving you there and we are not going out tonight. D’you hear me, Ramsay?”

Silence. For approximately ten seconds, while they just gape. Beric’s Patented Disappointment is worse than yelling, or anger. Disappointment feels personal

“Fuck. Bro. We pissed off Beric.” Sandor breaks the quiet, rubs his face, smears his eyeliner.

“Bro. Woah.” Tor pulls on the green plaid shirt and steps into his heavy boots, doing exactly what he is told.

“That’s...that’s fuckin’ epic.” Clegane seems to be in some state of fascinated shock. “Sorry Bolton. Still hate you, you cunt, but sorry. Don’t drink my beer or eat hummus when it’s not yours. Cocksucker.”

“What do you say, Ramsay?” Beric stares at him, and his expression is not at all calm; more like deep oceans that might explode when Godzilla launches itself from the blackness. It’s a bit sexy. He’s not sure whether to bite, fuck, or lash out, or all three, at the same time, on the settee. Or apologise. Because that’s actually a viable option.

Why?

Beric is in yoga pants, due to being disturbed from his pre-beating zen time. Beric has an arse that only Gods could dream of making when he is in yoga pants, to the point where Ramsay has banned him going outside in them in case he gets jumped by gangs of horny perverts. Since this is King’s Landing, there are many. Mostly Varys.

It means only one thing.

“Sorry.” Begrudgingly. He hates saying that word. Apologies are for the weak. Unless they involve yoga pants and disgruntled Berics. He doesn’t want to shag Beric, not much. Maybe a little bit. Whilst he’s all tied up and bloody and unable to say anything because there’s a ball gag in his gob. If he begs, which he never does, not in a million years. Especially if there are ball gags involved.

Beric. Who will suffer indignations for making him say the s-word.

It is only when he is pulling on his surgical gloves and wondering which bit of flesh to cut open with his favourite flaying knife that he realises that Beric referred to him as ‘my Ramsay.’

It feels...weirdly nice.

Not that this is anything apart from a mutual exchange of violence from a man who gives to a man who takes. But sometimes, he wonders if it would be nice waking up every day with Beric naked, bruised, chained to the bed, and offering to make him coffee and a bacon sandwich for breakfast.

 

* * *

 

There is chaos, and Oberyn Martell does not care, as he is texting. Again. In a corner Brienne and Tormund consider each other carefully, whilst the entire pub watches them as if they are the most exciting thing to enter _The Mayflower_ since those Puritans all those hundreds of years previously.

_Sweet boy, are you coming to the pub? I miss you. I have opened a tab and have asked Davos to find a bottle of that 2003 late bottled port that you enjoy. Tormund and Brienne are having a date. We are spectating. Jaime seems to be twitching. I am fascinated. I am also wearing that silk shirt you enjoy opening with your teeth. Come and be delightful at me._

_R u goin 2 be there all nite? I am w/Loras and Marg :(:(:( they r grumpy i didnt say bout bein w/you and r wantin goss :’(_

_I shall rescue you if you desire, little rose. Shall I swoop and steal you away to my lair? Keep you until you and I are sated?_

_Please :D:D:D r u able 2 film date so i cn see 2? :D_

_I am but a gentleman. I shall not intrude unless something ridiculous occurs.They are staring at each other. It is excruciating. Ah. He has just touched the back of her hand. His hand retreats as if she burns his skin. Regency dramas move more quickly._

_Aw bet they r shy :) they r cute 2gether <3 but her and jaime wuld be cute 2 <3 _

_You make little hearts at another. I am appalled._

_U r my <3 and have my <3 _

_Freghwe9rgy7996! !” Re!!!_

He frowns, and is about to text back to ask if something hideous has happened, when evidence of something even worse pings through.

_HI OBERYN THIS IS LORAS LOL!!!!! IT SPELS UR NAME LOL!!!!!! STOP TXTIN WILLAS WE R TALKIN BOUT UR COCK :D:D:D:D:D_

_Please give Willas’ phone back to him._

A man that sends that many exclamation marks should not be allowed in polite society. Or any society. An institution is the best place for a man who abuses punctuation in such a heinous manner.

_MARG SAYS U GOT 2 SHAG HR COS U DONT DONE HER YET :D:D:D:D:D FULL HOUSE!!!!!!!_

_Loras. You are aware that I know many things about you. I also know where you live. Please return the phone to Willas before I email Renly. I am sure he would be fascinated about your sex tour of the entirety of the Oldtown Under 21 football team. I also know it includes the substitutes, of which there are several._

He waits, patiently, watching Brienne and Tormund. The man is eating a steak roll in a most erotic manner, as if substituting certain parts of Brienne for the bread. Oberyn quietly rests his phone against his wine glass and surreptitiously films the entire devouring of the sandwich.

He senses YouTube in his future; viral videos, and millions of hits.

_Sorry :( Loras is a sod :(_

_You must come here, sweet boy. Your brother and sister are hellish and I desire your pretty mouth upon my own. Tormund is fellating a baguette with relish. Brienne seems suitably appalled._

_They say i got 2 stay w/them cos they miss me :(:(:(_

_What will convince you? I shall prostrate myself before you, delicious one._

_Send kisses pics sumthin else? ;) <3 _

_Ah, you are a tease. Perhaps I shall find something close to hand that might tempt you?_

_:O_

They both know where this is going, and he grins to himself, imagining Willas’ lovely face with those wonderful cheekbones going very very red indeed.

_I would attempt a winky face, but I feel my soul would disintegrate. Now excuse me, I must away to the bathroom and take matters into my own hands. Imagine the winky face here, my temptation._

_:O!!!!!_

Many adorable little devil faces and blushy emoticons follow. For some inexplicable reason, whilst Loras’ abuse of texting is irksome and childish, when Willas does the same it is unbelievably cute. Ellaria says that indicates actual emotional attachment to a person, and repeatedly asks for either threesomes or video clips. For once he indulges her with neither; Willas is his to enjoy. Ellaria’s rapaciousness - and she is the velociraptor of sex, after all - could cause hardened men to cardiac arrests, let alone pretty little lawyers who prefer buggery.

He asks Davos to look after his table, and saunters away to lock himself in a cubicle. Ten minutes after the little video clip has been sent - complete with the requisite moaning and name-whispering, and close ups - a flush-cheeked and frantic Willas Tyrell careens across the pub, collides with the table, and leaps into Oberyn’s waiting embrace like a thoroughly turned-on salmon seeking a tempting pile of spawn.

Knocks the wine all over the place, as is his normal style.

Willas sighs, rubs at the bridge of his nose, disentangles from the Martell death grip, and retreats to the bar to beg for a cloth.

 

* * *

 

“She’s looking at him.”

“They are on a date, Jaime.” Shae shakes her beautiful dark head, curls bouncing. “If they weren’t looking at each other, I’d be worried."

“Why is she looking at him. She should be looking at me.” He is in a corner far away enough to stop himself punching Tormund on the nose, and near enough that he can almost eavesdrop. They’re currently talking about weaponry, and Brienne is laughing. She seems to like swords, and he wonders if Tywin would notice if he stole one of the ones in the large and extensive Lannister collection to give as a gift. One of the ones with the red and black blades, the Valyrian one with the little lion’s head with sapphire eyes. The one he might have named Brienne’s imaginary strap-on after.

He doesn’t even get an erection at the thought, for once, which concerns him more.

“You have it bad, sweetness.”

“I don’t understand why. She’s ugly, she’s boorish and manly, she’s taller than me. She plays rugby and doesn’t care how she looks. Her hair is feeble. Her mouth looks like some sort of pillowy kissable gash in her hideous face-”

“Pillowy kissable gash?” Tyrion snorts from where he lies like a prone miniature seal beached upon the bar top, throws a pork scratching at Jaime. He catches it in his teeth and crunches, sulkily. “That sounds revolting.”

“Gash is an awful word,” Shae agrees. “Like moist. And minge.”

“Flaps.”

“Phlegm.”

“Mucous.”

They end up just yelling words at each other, then arguing over the less apparently offensive ones.

“I quite like minge,” Davos quietly interjects, which sends Tyrion sniggering into his pineapple concoction. The barman just shakes his head.

“Don’t tell Stannis, he hopes you’re not into minge.” Jaime isn’t drunk. Or he is, but since he’s only had five pints, he is merrily coasting along. It is a reward for two whole weeks of sobriety, and a challenge to see if he can remain on the right side of blindingly pissed. He’s asked Tyrion to switch him to low-alcohol beer after this one. He needs the booze to deal with his sex-crush being on a date with his ginger-pubed mortal enemy. “He’s wanting to feast upon thy gentleman’s sausage, Dav.”

“You’re an arse, Jaime.” He gets whipped with a tea towel. Davos is mean with a tea towel.

“Ow!”

“...do you think Stannis likes me?” It’s bloody funny, in a late middle-age sort of way, how Davos looks so hopeful. Jaime decides to be magnanimous for a change.

“He wore your rugby shirt and returned it fully washed, ironed, and with a box of bloody expensive chocolates to say thanks. He buys you really good presents every name day. He remembers every one of your sons’ names, name days, jobs, and partners. Even you can’t remember all them, and you’ve got it written down in your phone. He never talks to any of us commoners socially, just you and Tyrion, and only to that little shit when you’re not around. Also I hacked his laptop when he wasn’t looking and he has a spreadsheet of things he wants to do to you which may or may not involve your tattoos.”

Davos licks his lips thoughtfully, obviously processing the new information, fumbles his phone from his jeans, and disappears into the stockroom in a strange sort of trance.

“Jaime…” Tyrion leans forward, curious. “Where did you learn to hack laptops?”

“I was bored, and drunk one month, and was looking for porn to strengthen my left wrist. Accidentally learned how to hack laptops instead.” Not really. He was trying to work out how to infect Gregor Clegane’s laptop with all of the viruses in revenge for his hand. Jaime wasn’t quite  sure how his knowledge came to be, since he was pickled in vodka for most of those four weeks, before realising that it was bollocks and went to drinking rum like a fish.

“That’s a level of being pissed that I’m in awe of, brother. That is PhD level drunkenness.”

“Do you think Brienne would prefer me if I had a beard?” He is suddenly struck by a massive case of beard envy as Tormund runs his hand through the red chin fur. Perhaps that is why she’s hanging about with the bastard rather than himself?

“No idea, but have a go so I can piss myself laughing at your facial furniture.”

 

* * *

 

“Edd?” He looks up from his book. Podrick is delayed, mostly because Arya is probably breaking up with him. It is the sort of thing that always happens with young love. Two handsome people, brought together by circumstance, shattered upon the shores of reality.

“Oh.” Her.

Sansa smiles. She is a radiant beauty, and he finds himself thinking of her painted by Lely in pale grey satins draped about her shoulders, hair chestnut ringlets over alabaster shoulders. Ming-dynasty porcelain is never as delicate as her cheek, her wide blue eyes as lovely as the Star of Valyria. No, she is not Restoration. He berates himself for his foolishness. She is Neo-Medieval, and Pre-Raphaelite. She is the _Lady of Shalott_ . _La Ghirlandata_. She is tumbling hair, and velvets. The delicate fingers of a spinner, or the quill-feather. She is timeless in her grace and loveliness.

He manages to grimace a returning pleasantry, and tries not to look too deranged.

“Just a message from Pod. He’s not going to be long, but Arya accidentally stabbed his phone with a kukri knife.” Her movements, like mermaids and seaweed, a trailing elegance of hands and limbs, bring him up short.

“A kukri?”

“A kukri.”

He cannot pull away, he cannot avert his gaze. Edd Tollett is a man of complexity. He is hidden depths, wrapped in dolorousness. He is quiet intensity and crooked smiles, wry sarcastic humour. Pessimism.

He is but a man, and Sansa but a woman.

“Thank you for telling me.”

He is but a man with a stinking great big crush on a woman who is in love with another. This occurs too often to be a mere coincidence. Shae, and Ygritte, and a myriad of the beauties that haunt _The Mayflower_ , King’s Landing, Westeros. He watches and worships and says nothing. He sees them with other men and yearns.

And people wonder why he is a pessimist. This always happens to him.

Perhaps he should try Podrick’s suggestion of internet dating, but Edd knows that if anyone is to be catfished, or murdered by online serial killers, it will be him,

 

* * *

 

“Claymore or great axe?”

“Great axe.” Tormund leans forward, and almost chokes on the urge to tell Brienne that she is incredible. Never has he had a conversation about medieval and early modern weaponry with anyone before, let alone the woman he wants to, well, if not marry at least live in sin with in the old tradition for the next fifty or so years. “Swords are all well and good, but if you’re fighting a White Walker, ye need something built for your build, right? And I’m great axe as fuck. We’ve got a family sword, and it’s a bit shit to be honest. Think it must have been nicked off a southron by me ancestor. No size to it. I wield massive things.” He almost giggles at his own words, but Brienne is a little too serious about her weapons to understand the innuendo he’s been shooting at her all evening.

Especially the bread eating. Dammit. Why has that never worked on a woman before? It’s sexy, his bread eating.

“I’d choose a mace, something like a morningstar, or maybe a flail. Unless I was given a sword, then I’d use that. It was an honour to be given a sword by a liege lord, it showed that he trusted you to wield the weapon with the greatest of knightly respect.”

“Also, I’m no gentleman enough for a sword. They’re for knights. You’re a knight. You’d rescue me from White Walkers, you would! Shield? Would you do the whole knight shield thing?” Beer happily fizzes in his system. Their respective legs are so long that knees keep bumping, shins keep brushing. He wants to run his hand along her thigh, feel all that muscle under his fingers.

“Possibly, if required.”

“Blue shields, like your eyes. You have pretty eyes, like the sky.”

He doesn’t do romantic, but damn, if Tor isn’t impressed by his smoothness right about there.

“Tormund?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you ask me out on a date?” She watches him, slightly guarded.

“Because you’re a warrior. You’re strong, and brilliant, and powerful. You make all the other women look like weak wee girls. You know about weapons and rugby, and you have really nice legs. AlsoIthinkyou’rereallyhot.” He downs his mostly full pint as Brienne turns pink about the ears. 

“We both know I’m not ‘hot,’ Tor. If this is a joke, if someone in the team has put you up to this-”

What is she on about? Brienne keeps acting as if she’s not datable, or ugly, or that someone asking her out is a weird occurrence. Hasn’t she looked at herself? Doesn’t she see what he sees? Crap. She doesn’t, does she? Brienne has no idea what an impact she has. No one has told her that she’s amazing, and that’s really shit. Well, Tor decides, he will tell her. He will show her. Brienne deserves to be worshipped as the Wilding goddess she is meant to be, by him, for the next few decades. The rugby-playing woman of infinite mercy has him in thrall.

It does, however, mean talking about Feelings.

He braces, takes a deep breath, and launches in with a confidence that his ancestors would recognise as verging upon the reckless.

“What? No! No. Look, you’re- Shit. I’m shit at this. I didn’t mean you’re shit! I am just shit at this stuff. No, I think you’re amazing! That’s all. And even if you aren’t what others think of as a classical beauty, you’re just. You. Yerself. And that’s what’s brilliant about you, that you’re you! With your legs, and your big grin, and your big rough hands, and the way you tackle people, and how you know about weapons and armour, and how you dress like it doesn’t matter because it’s only clothes at the end of the day, and you being kind, and good, and sensible, and honourable, and all that shit. Because you’re you, I suppose. S’why I asked you out on a date. Because I like you being you, and all that comes along with you. M’a bit in awe.”

It is the most that Tormund has ever said to anyone, ever, and that includes people that he isn’t trying to woo into eventually having several ridiculously tall and beautiful children. Even his bros have never heard him ramble on that much.

Every bit of it is heartfelt, because Brienne deserves someone telling her that she is the best thing since chopped liver, sliced bread, rugby, and lumberjack shirts.

She pauses, watching him, before leaning across the short expanse of sticky and chipped table top and and kissing him shyly on the corner of his mouth.

Tormund knows the brightness of his grin could power a thousand suns, possibly several nuclear reactors. Definitely a village of approximately fifteen hundred homes.

 

* * *

 

“Change that to rum.”

“Jaime-”

“No, little brother. Really not the time for a lecture. Make it a quadruple.”

Fuck.

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

 

The handsome maester, and Stannis is quite envious of the smart and obviously bespoke tweed suit he wears, handcuffs the sarcastic and unfairly gorgeous platinum-blond vampire with the Flea Bottom accent to the bath tub. There is snarling, and snippiness, and he decides they should kiss. There must be some sort of pornographic version of this on the Westernet; he shall search later, when he is alone.

Stannis might be quite drunk at this point in the evening, and it isn’t even his fault.

Of course his mind skitters. Anything makes that happen these days. He is the one in the bathtub, he is the one with the fangs, and Davos is the man chaining him down. Of course this leads to mindblowing and gently kinky sex, with nibbling, shower heads, and conditioner used in a manner that it really should not be, and he does worry about the implications of it being up _there_ since Davos takes control so very masterfully in his fantasies; however, such is the power of a sopping wet Seaworth, body hair plastered and tattoos glowing temptingly for his fangs to nip at, that he forgets.

Shireen loves this programme; Stannis despairs, of course.

He and his daughter have a distant, emotionally stunted relationship, but he is trying. Since she left with Selyse, moved in with that blasted yoga instructor who stalked him for a year and a half and then stole his wife, he sees Shireen once, perhaps twice a month - Melisandre’s restraining order is still in place, making things difficult. His daughter is of an age where she hovers between child and young woman, and he does not quite know how to cope with this.

There are mentions of a boyfriend.

Stannis is having him followed by a private detective, like any sensible father should. So far he knows the youth is two years younger than Shireen, is a Stark, and could possibly be rabid. Definitely feral. Apparently he bit Baelish, which, to be frank, is never a bad thing. Petyr needed hospital treatment and a tetanus jab, and he may have sicced the man on this Rickon, but Stannis surreptitiously sent the boy an anonymous ten dragon gift voucher.

Beric Dondarrion lent him the _Hunger Games_ films, and recommended other titles he and Shireen may enjoy. Brienne warned him off _Twilight_ . Sam and Gilly, wearing Hufflepuff badges, allowed him to borrow _Harry Potter_. Stannis did the official Sorting Hat test and was not amused to find himself placed in Slytherin; from what he gathers, he should be a Gryffindor. Shireen is a proud Ravenclaw. He has sat through every young adult movie series he can think of, and is branching into television box sets, so he and Shireen can bond. The books are always far superior, though he finds himself itching to send polite letters to editors to point out the grammar issues that plague most literature these days.

The slayer female kisses the large and dark-haired vampire with the sullen expression and appalling accent, and he knows no good will come of their relationship. There are too many variables, and dangers, and really, what sort of sensible slayer would become involved with the very creature she is destined to kill? Foolishness.

A beer is placed in his hand, and he looks up at Davos with appreciation.

“How’s Dany doing? Has she almost slayed Daemon again, like normal?”

“She is kissing him. How she is meant to be a role model to girls, I have no idea. Yes, she represents a strong and independent young woman, caught in terrible situation. She has excellent and realistic relationships with the Dracarys Gang, and demonstrates a healthy ‘normal’ family life. She shows that not all attractive young ladies are popular, or ‘cool’, and that they can be friends with a wide range of different types, sexualities, and genders. However, she is insufferable in her cavalier attitude to her duty. Going and kissing vampires, rather than slaying them, is inviting something catastrophic. Also, she will break her ankle in those heeled boots.”

“So you don’t want to know what happens between her and Daemon then?” Davos settles next to him on the expensive and tasteful Chesterfield, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes creasing. He is also quite drunk, and quite friendly with it; that rankles. Every so often a hand rubs the back of Stannis’ neck, or finds his knee, or lies upon his forearm. Thighs touch mate-ily, as do hips. Sometimes the old sailor drapes himself over the back of the Chesterfield, whispers in Stannis’ ear to ask if he’d like another drink. Such tactile behaviour by someone that he has a crush on should be banned under the Human Rights Act 1998. Surely there must be some sort of clause that prevents torture?

“Of course I do.” He realises what he has said, because this programme is a guilty pleasure, and changes tack. “I need to watch all of this rubbish, since Shireen likes it.”

“Daemon is in a spin-off, you know? It’s called _Daemon_.”

“Unfortunately I shall have to purchase it. Not for me. For Shireen. How do you know so much about _Dany the Grumkin Slayer_?”

“I’d say it’s because I’ve got seven sons and I have to keep up with what they like, but I’d be lying. I just really like the programme. I’ve watched it all the way through three times now.” He laughs easily, self-depreciating as always. “Got to love it when my accent is on telly. It’s not a bad go at it, either. Obviously Maester is best at it. Have you got to the bit where he goes all Flea Bottom yet? When he goes Slas- Bugger, that might be a spoiler, it might be the next series, I can’t remember at the moment. But Thorne isn’t bad, even if the actor is from northern Crownlands. He just gets a bit wrong, sometimes, but the lad’s trying alright.”

Stannis is not quite sure how Davos ended up on his doorstep with a crate of his favourite Volanti Pale Ale, asking if he wanted some company. Pentoshi takeaway ordered, they shared the rice, and Davos made him try some of the spicy prawn concoction. More beer was imbibed, along with banana fritters and vanilla ice cream. He’d been watching his daily session of _Dany_ , and Davos was fine with continuing, so they settled in for what turned into a marathon binge session; it is something that Stannis has never done before. Having the other man in his house opens up a wide and thrilling new possibility of watching two or more episodes of something per night.

Dizzying, really.

“Stannis?” Slurring from next to him. On the screen, the maester releases the vampire to feed him blood from a mug that states it belongs to the ‘World’s Best Maester’, and really, they should kiss. Or Maester should let his handsome head fall back invitingly, exposing the length of his bookishly pale throat, and let the ever-shirtless Thorne slide his sharp fangs into the pulse point hammering in that lovely neck, and drink until they are grinding together, lust and sex and death-

“Hmm?”

“Look at me one sec?”

He drags his eyes from television, over to Davos, and promptly drops his thankfully empty bottle of VPA.

Warm brown eyes, and that silvering beard, and when did Davos remove his t-shirt? All he sees are those blue swirling tattoos, the anchors and other watery symbols and the slightly blurred and faded crest of his Navy division. The seven inked names upon his bicep. The promise of strength under chest hair, almost fifty year old flesh still well-kept, and that general tempting cuddliness of Davos.

Stannis makes a strangled sound, like a duck eating a microphone.

“Heard you like my tattoos. C’mere.”

Who is Stannis to refuse? Davos is a guest. Refusing to have wonderful, delicious, mind-melting sex with him would be impolite. Stannis swallows, watches Davos trail his shortened fingers over his nipples, tracing woad-y lines that tempt, and, martyr-like, decides that it is his turn to take one for the team.

 

* * *

 

Having a piss is really difficult because when whenever he tries to have one Theon Greyjoy rocks into the bathroom. It keeps happening, and Ramsay is getting suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing!” Theon grins, little smirky bitch that he is, and examines himself in the mirror.

“Stop stalking me.”

“I’m not stalking you, like, no. Just ending up in here, you’re in here, it’s all cool dude. Totally cool.”

“Piss off.”

Hands find his hips, and a pointed chin nestles onto his shoulder. “If I shag you, yeah, then will you tell me if you and Beric are fucking because I totally still have a tenner on it, and Jon’s all like, no, fucking, and I’m totally like no, still kink, and shit, so?”

“Fuck’s sake, Greyjoy.” He zips up because it is impossible to piss with a man’s hands so near his cock, and turns, half-tempted to just piss all over Theon and have done with it. So not his kink though, so he doesn’t, and if he did, it’d be with Beric. Not because he wants to urinate on Beric, but really, if there is anyone he’d do sick shit with, it’s Beric, not Theon.

Even Ramsay has standards.

“C’mon,” he whines, and Ramsay wonders if he makes that sort of noise when he’s wanting to climax. “I just wanna know.”

This has gone on too long. Every evening he is here, and Theon practically lives in _The Mayflower_ , Ramsay is accosted by questions. So many questions. They have degenerated from casual enquiries about the possible sexual relationship between him and Dondarrion, into promises of buying a pint for the information. Last week it was blowjobs in a cubicle. Now it is buggery. Seriously. What’s worse is that the little fuckhead keeps pestering Beric about it, and the only person allowed to annoy his bitch is Ramsay himself.

Time to end this. He’s had enough. Since Theon won’t screw him without betting involved, and is obviously more interested in getting off with everyone else, Ramsay makes the decision to finally cut his losses. What’s the frigging point? He’s got Beric. What else does he need? He’d just probably end up killing Theon and shoving him in a ditch somewhere for backchat and general shittiness at being a sub, or at least telling Greyjoy’s terrifying Ironborn Dad on which mindbending substances his son spends Balon’s generous weekly allowance.

Ramsay might just do that anyway, just to see the world burn.

“Right.” A step forward, a lunge, a flash of sharp pointy little teeth, and Theon is against the mirror with almost five feet eight (on a good day) of Ramsay smushed against him. He ignores the Greyjoy erection, and goes for the wrists, holding them against the glass. Six weeks ago, perhaps, he’d be happily frotting away and getting off on having this sexy little wanker pinned, but no. Not now. This has gone on too long, and Ramsay is just pissed off. Everyone always thinking about his sex life. He doesn’t flaunt it, dammit. No one understands what just beating the shit out of someone entails. No one gets it, apart from Beric, and-

Fuck this for a game of soldiers.

“We’re fucking,” he hisses.

“Are we?” Theon beams, drugged beyond all comprehension.

“No, you wanker! Me and Beric. Fucking. He takes it up the arse. He worships at the font of Bolton. He rides me like Spock rides Kirk, like Obi-Wan rides Qui-gon, like Harkness rides the Ninth Doctor though they are switchy as fuck so maybe not. I am the stallion who mounts his world. I am the terror in the night who fucks his shit up. I am the sword in his darkness. I stick him with my pointy end. I am Winter and I come in his arse. Now go and tell that pretty little bastard Snow you owe him a tenner, and stop. Fucking. Asking. About my fucking sex life you watery cephlapodic tart! Or I will destroy your home, salt your fields, piss in your sea, and shag your manly sister.”

“So, we’re not going to fuck?”

Ramsay manages not to punch Greyjoy in the face, but it is a close-run thing. Instead he storms out of the toilets after scrubbing his hands in record time, over to Beric. The man is at the bar, and gets him a full fat Coke when seeing the Bolton expression.

“I told Theon we’re fucking.” Ramsay doesn’t expect a reaction, and one never comes. Just the slight nod of Beric’s head, the endless understanding because Dondarrion gets him. Always has done, ever since that day in the pub with the accidental collaring, U _fucking_ 2 on repeat on the jukebox, and the bolt-cutters,

“Good. Seriously, he was getting insufferable about that bet. He asked me again before I saw him making a break for the bathroom after you. Hopefully everyone will stop fixating about it. They must be bored if we’re the topic of their obsession. Peanut?” Offering a bag. Ramsay steals the entirety, packet and all, and Beric asks Shae for another.

“They’ve got no fucking idea at all.” He growls, then rests his head against Beric’s muscular bicep. Under his cheek the skin is warm and biteable. “When you have sex, top or bottom?”

“Obvious answer is obvious, Ramsay.”

“Just so I know, if they pry.” Obviously. Not that he’s going to actually have sex with Beric. He just needs to know. For science. Possibly wanking. Look, if he is going to imprison Beric in his flat in lieu of Theon, for whipping, coffee-making and bacon sandwich purposes, he best get some nice sheets that don’t need washing if brown sauce* gets all over the place.

Not sex. Definitely not sex. He just wants his bed practical, that’s all, for eating in whilst Beric wanders around the flat doing things wearing a collar and arseless leather jeans. Like cleaning, and cooking, and sucking him off while he’s playing _Call of Duty_ on the PS4 and telling twelve year olds that he’s fucked their mums.

Blow jobs don’t count as sex, do they?

 

* * *

 

“It feels real. Touch it, go on.” Jaime thrusts his prosthetic at Tyrion’s face. His brother pokes it, warily, and retreats.

“It feels like a Fleshlight. You have a gentleman’s wanking aid strapped to your stump.”

Jaime takes the opportunity to test if he can bitch slap his beloved little brother with his new appendage. To his delight, he can get quite the swing in, though the hand wobbles alarmingly as he does.

“Why now? You’ve been avoiding it for the last how long, and then suddenly you’ve got one of Qyburn’s Finest tied to your arm?”

“It’s so weird. Look.” He bangs the hand against the bar, fascinated as it bounces back. “This one is just temporary. He’s promised to look into getting one of the ones where the fingers move with the power of my brain.”

“Limited movement, then?”

“Cheeky little bastard, you are.”

“You adore me. You protect me, and love me, and prefer me to the rest of the family.”

“Considering Father, our sweet sister, and the myriad of inbred cousins we have, that’s not a big deal.” He bonks Tyrion on the head, though in a loving manner. “Anyway, when are they due?”

“About ten minutes, they’ve reserved a table. You’re not drinking, are you?”

Jaime grins, shakes his head. He has dressed up, as much as a one-handed man with an aversion to buttons can, and is sporting the sort of t-shirt/blazer/nice trouser combination that models in upmarket men’s magazines prefer. He has had three offers of phone numbers, and a girl walked into a lamp post in sheer lust. His beard - because he is still half-and-half about it, is mostly designer stubble. He likes it. It’s really useful for scratching his left arm when he’s itchy.

He has not had a drink since the night of Brienne and Tormund’s date, partly because he woke up in a sludge of his own bodily fluids in Tyrion’s bathtub, which is the lowest of the low, and he doesn’t feel too bad. Of course the cravings hit, especially if in the pub, or on his own - anywhere there is booze or loneliness. It is hard, and it fucks him up more than he admits to Tyrion and Shae, and sometimes Jaime sits and stares into space and dreams of being drunk, but he’s fighting it properly, for the first time in a very long time, because, again, for the first time in a very long time, he is fighting for something - no, someone - who he actually likes. Someone who is a good person, who isn’t Cersei, who argues back with vigour, who treats him like a human being rather than a pathetic sad once-famous drunk with a disability.

Brienne doesn’t pity him. She did, when she saw his hand, when she saw him paralytic. For the vast majority of people, that never changes. With her, it did. He is still a broken man, nursing an addiction, angry at the world for forsaking him. Brienne argues, and she forces him to think. She is a decent woman and she leads by example, and he finds himself wanting to emulate her easy, moralistic nature. She gives, and gives, and never gives in, because she is far too honourable for her own good. Yes, there are flaws; stubborn wench that she is, and foolish, and naive. Idealistic.

He likes her foibles, because they make Brienne human.

Also, she is really really sexy. Ugly, yes. Undeniably. But by the Seven she is the sexiest woman he has ever seen.

Shae hands him his usual non-drinky drink of lime and lemonade, and he settles against the bar.

When Brienne comes in, she looks tense, and nervous, and she is not alone.

 

* * *

 

“I cannot believe your chef quit over the Bread Fellating Incident. I also cannot believe that sneaky rogue Oberyn has so many hits on YouTube, and that Tormund is now a media sensation. The trashy tabloids are reporting love letters from obviously insane women - though he does have an excellent basic technique. If he does with to further his education, I suppose I shall volunteer to be ravished.”

“Want something to eat? We have a new chef. No, you’re not seeing him.”

“Darling? What are you hiding in that kitchen?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Varys. Nothing whatsoever. Nada. Nothing. Nyet. Nein. Nihil. Nac ydw**.”

“Look at you with your fancy languages, T. Surely the last one is just you hacking up phlegm? You have someone tasty, don’t you? I know you too well, sweetness.”

“No. I am not having you rogering my staff. You know what happened last time you shagged one of my workers.”

“Belwas is such a dear man. He still emails, you know? Such a shame my connections got him an excellent job in Meereen. What that man could do with toffee sauce is between me, my bedsheets, and the Gods.”

“Bastard. He made the best sausage sandwiches.”

“His sausage was indeed-”

“Duck, I’ve just knocked these up. Saw this macaron recipe and just had to have a go. Ey up, shug, you’re new. Fancy a nibble?”

“Oh, darling. Hello. In addition to one of those yummy macarons, I want your mobile number, and I but offer a humble yet tastefully expensive invitation to dinner in return.”

“Varys! Stop trying to shag my chef!”

“Hush, duck, he can’t help see quality, can he? Love the suit, is that Armani?”

“Hot Pie, stop encouraging him!”

“No, just my little man in Braavos - far better with a needle than those hacks. Are you a pastry chef? These macarons are simply divine. I do adore pie, you know.”

“Hotter and sweeter the better when it comes to pie, shug. There’s me number, and I’m free on Monday night. Don’t need dinner, fancy dessert instead? Come up for coffee and cheesecake, I’ll run one up special for you.”

“Go back into your kitchen and think about what you have done, you filthy libertine of a cook. Varys! Stop eye-fucking my chef!”

“Duck, you’re so grumpy. Have a macaron, and I’ll make you a lovely all-day breakfast.”

“...with extra black pudding?”

“I’ll go and chop you an extra slice. Ta-ra Varys, _very_ good meeting you.”

“You are so fickle, Tyrion. That man is perfection personified. I simply must have him.”

“Fuck off, you want to shag him because you have a fat pastry chef fetish.”

“Where has he been for my entire existence?”

“Being fat and cheffy in Highgarden, from whence I stole him, much to the consternation of Olenna Tyrell. Apparently he is her favourite chef. Also, y’know, I thought you’d like him, so I called him up and got him here.”

“You got be an overweight pastry chef as a gift since I cannot have your lissom form? Tyrion, I am touched.”

“In your bloody head, definitely.”

“Tyrion?”

“Yeah?”

“What in the name of all the Seven is a ‘shug?’”

 

* * *

 

“We want you in Storm's End, Brienne.” The Blackfish never minces his words. “Player-coach. We’d train you in both, since you’re damned good at the roles. You’d be a professional. You could be the first woman to play for your country. That’s how much me and Jon believe in your ability.”

“We’ve never seen anyone as talented as you at your age, not even Jaime Lannister - you’re even running Arthur close. The pay is excellent, and we provide private health care, personal trainers, a share of television and interview revenues, other perks-” Jon Connington places her glass of diet bitter lemon on the table, smiles benignly. “We are the most successful club in Westeros, as you know. We look for the best, and with you, we have found it.”

“You have too much potential to be wasting away in this shithole. Baratheon is a good judge of character, but this is just amateur. You’ve got no future here, just dealing with Lannister, who is washed-up pisshead, and this ragged team. One or two of them are decent. I give you that. The rest of them are shit.”

“They’re not shit, Brynden, they are rough around the edges. What Brienne gets out of them is simply incredible, considering the lack of personnel. Gendry, especially, will be someone we’ll look into in greater detail.”

It is simply the good scout/bad scout routine, and they have done this for years. Brynden wades in with his harshness, straight-to-the-point, laying out the truth as he sees it. Jon follows, sweetening and tempting. Out of the two of them Connington has the far more violent temper; he was renowned for his arrogance, his flaring rage, his ill-controlled anger. It, however, takes a very long time for him to truly explode when he is not at war upon the rugby pitch. The Blackfish is professional to a fault, but brutal with it. Experience tempers him into a weapon.

They make an excellent team, in their work and their relationship. Tully sense and Connington passion.

“I give you that, Jon.” Grudgingly. They are playing this act well. Brienne, and she is tall, taller than them both, fidgets. “Just think of what she’d do with a good team. Think of what she could do with Dayne? Forel? Tanner, he’d fucking thrive under her. Selmy would love another tactical mind amongst the coaching staff.” Names drip from his tongue, temptingly; the greatest players and coaching staff of their generation and, in the case of Arthur Dayne, possibly the best of all time. Older, yes, and only a year or two from retirement, but offering the chance to work with the Sword of Morning is a huge lever for them. They have recruited half of the current team just because they promised Dayne.

She blinks, all wide eyes and confusion, mixed with a heady cocktail of possibility and yearning.

Hook. Line. Sinker. Jon almost grins, but turns it into a kindly father-like look.

“Your Dad coached both of us. He told me that I was useless idiot who’d never amount to anything unless I learned not to get sent off. He told Brynden,” and Jon’s expression turns fond and loving, “that he is an arse with the talent of a salted slug, but a very good salted slug.”

“Sounds like Dad.”

“He’d be bloody proud of you, Brienne, if you turned pro.”

“It does sound incredible,” Brienne mutters, her shoulders tense. “It really does, and such an opp-”

A cough interrupts them, and Jaime Lannister, who every right-minded person has a little crush on because he used to be the most beautiful thing in Westeros, and dressed like that still is because damn, drags over a stool.

Jon frowns.

This is not Jaime of six weeks previously. He seemingly has two hands, though one turns out to be a prosthetic that he is fond of hitting things with and grinning oddly as it twangs about. No, this is Jaime, golden Jaime, shining and handsome beyond measure. Both he and Brynden mutually agree that given the correct circumstances they would sleep with Jaime Lannister; they each have a list of allowable exceptions. The rest of Jon’s lineup consists of Rhaegar Targaryen, and no one else. There might be tiny hearts drawn all over it in red ink.

Old habits die hard, after all. Jon has a thing for unattainable blonds.

“Afternoon,” and he sounds cheerful, but there is that faintly manic light to his eyes that has not been there for years, since Clegane and that awful day at the Stade d’Braavos. “Afternoon, wench.”

“My name is Brienne.” It seems very automatic coming from her lips, and Jon is fascinated to see how red her ears glow. Someone could fry bacon on them. Her cheeks burn, and she seems unable to meet the emerald eyes watching her cheerfully.

“Are these two bothering you? I can have Tyrion chuck them out on their arses if you want?”

“We’re offering her a job, Lannister.” Brynden leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table. He and Jaime, if they ever slept together, would have copious amounts of hate-sex. Jon knows he’d have to fling himself between their naked bodies, to rescue them from themselves, sacrifice himself. He is nothing but a merciful man, after all. Not that anything like that ever happens to him. He and Brynden are very monogamous, to the point that it scares lesser men. “Get away from this shitty club and join a real one. Somewhere she properly belongs.”

“Brynden, you never change. Is this where Jon comes in and says something nice and positive, to take away from your trashing of King’s Landing, so Brienne thinks that you’re just charmingly honest and Connington is just charmingly understanding?”

”Please go away, Jaime.” Brienne clutches the beermat, turning it over and over in her long fingers. Her shoulders tighten, her head drops, and she stares at the slightly sticky tabletop.

“I’m just protecting my club’s interests. Two against one is hardly sporting, is it?” He smiles, a gleam in the greeny depths of his eyes, and he looks just as reckless as he did when he scored the Grand Slam winning try in the season before it all went to shit and he lost his hand. It is a mercurial wildness, and Jon, having worked with Jaime for so very long, knows that expression more than he would wish to.

Oh. Oh fuck.

He kicks Brynden lightly under the table.

 _Trouble is coming_.

“I can defend myself, and I can make up my own mind.” She crosses her arms, stubborn, and the set of Brienne’s jaw is achingly like Selwyn’s for a moment.

“Yes, but the club really needs my support since I’m the only one here that seems to give a shit at the moment. You’re thinking of defecting. Tyrion is well on the way to being drunk as Varys is here and that is what they do. Kings of wine and miscellaneous body parts, those two. Stannis is at work, and probably has no idea that these two are trying to snatch you away from your contract, even though the season has already started. Wench. You are being seduced by two really gay men. Seriously, they are the gayest men in Westeros, apart from Loras Tyrell, but he is so gay that he doesn’t count. He is like a gay black hole, or something, sucking in all the gay - that sounded really dodgy. So that’s really unfair play, don’t you think?”

“It is perfectly fucking fair. Contracts can be broken at any time.” Brynden twitches, a vein in his temple throbbing.

“But what if promises have been made. Honourable promises, by wenches who uphold them?” Grinning now, and Jon wishes he could strangle the glorious, beautiful bastard. “Brienne is the most honourable woman that I know, and I’m sure that she’d never stoop so low to shatter something that Stannis Baratheon has entrusted her with. After all, I am an unrepentant alcoholic, and can snap at any time if I sniff a barmaid’s apron. Who could train this team, if not the wench? There is no one else. Brienne isn’t the sort of dishonourable woman to leave us in the lurch. She’s too good, and noble, for that.”

“You’re bloody sober now!” Lannister is button pressing. He feels the Blackfish hand on his shoulder, and takes a deep breath. “This is nothing to do with you, Jaime. This is Brienne’s decision, and hers alone.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your machinations. Just remember, wench; honour and knightly virtue.”

In an instant, with a ghost of a wink, he is gone.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [Brown sauce](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_sauce) is not kinky. Brown sauce is yummy. But it can be kinky if you like.  
> ** Got to get Welsh in here somewhere.  
> *** Shug is a north Staffordshire endearment, as is duck. It means sugar, but, you know, people here find it too much work to say two syllables.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tiny voice* Please don't kill me. I'm too esoteric to die.

* * *

 

 

Beric snores. 

Ramsay is tempted to shove a pillow over his face and suffocate the bitch where he sleeps, but he is drowsy and comfortable and full of bacon and egg quiche. Everything feels nice, which, for a man not accustomed to niceness, is quite bizarre. Usually the people he shares his bed with are there for the time it takes to have sex with them, and then they are thrown out on their arses. Ramsay is possessive of his space, his bed. He is, after all, a selfish bastard. Everything that is his belongs to him, and everything that belongs to others could be his if he intimidates them enough to hand stuff over.

An arm flops about like Jaime Lannister’s ridiculous prosthetic and winds about Ramsay’s waist, warm palm smoothing over his back.

For a moment he stiffens.

The sheep-like snoring stops for a merciful moment, and then that red-gold head snuggles into his chest.

It is odd, given Beric is about ten feet tall and built like a minotaur, that Ramsay is the big spoon. His feet end up perilously near Dondarrion’s knees, but he can tuck his toes into the soft bits of skin that aren’t hairy,  and keep warm and cosy like that.

“Y’kay?” Sleepy Beric. A scrape of stubble as Ramsay Bolton is nuzzled.

Nuzzled.

“Fucking gay.”

“Mmm.” Happy and warm and sated. “Yep.”

“Subby bottom that you are, bitch.”

“Mmmhmmm.” More hand stroking across his waist, into the dip of his spine. “Y’know me.”

Trying to wind Beric is up is like trying to seduce the frigging Dalai Lama. Just not happening. Anyway, he doesn’t mean it. That’s how they roll, him and this huge man with the pretty bruising and the tattoos.

“How the fuck am I supposed to sleep with you draped over me like some two-dragon whore, sweating like a bloody radiator?”

Fingers creep up the inside of his thigh, sneaking every upward.

“Oh, it’s like that? You in heat or something, bitch?”

“Taste nice, s’your fault.” Another of those affectionate nuzzles, scarred scratchy cheek over his nipple. Beric plays dirty. Bastard.

“I’m not letting you suck me off if you can’t put a sentence together.” 

Beric smiles, beatific, rattles off something about quick brown foxes jumping over lazy dogs, before he slowly wriggles under the duvet. There is a lot of tongue involved, and teeth which is more than fine because he doesn’t mind a little pain with his shagging if on his own terms, and happy purring noises. Ramsay sighs, rolls his eyes, puts his arms behind his head like the Martyr of Oral Sex.

Beric is insatiable. It is like being at a dinner table with a starving man, but with cock, obviously.

“This isn’t sex, this is service. This is worshipping your Master.” The purring starts again, like an outboard motor or an overly enthusiastic ocelot. “This is just a one off, Dondarrion.”

He crosses his fingers behind his hair, because Ramsay is a filthy little liar.

“Course it is, Ramsay.” Nibbles. There are nibbles. A pause. A tongue in a place where he’s never had a tongue before. That frankly strikes the fear of the Stranger into Ramsay for a moment as that really could be construed as penetration, but, thinking about it, all wet and wriggly and muscular, meh. Fuck it. It isn’t like Beric is bending him over the mattress and buggering him senseless with a radish. What’s a tongue between BDSM partners?

“...you’ll stay tomorrow. I’ll manacle you to the settee and you’ll watch the international with me.” Everything with Ramsay is a demand; there is no room for someone saying no, but he’s convinced Beric wouldn’t turn him down. Not when, shit...what the fuck was that? Why did-? Is this why-? Just-? Fuck! Beric chuckles, and does it again; a pressing of fingers in a certain place, sending Ramsay almost off the bed with the sort of scream usually reserved for dungeons. Everything is sparkling for a long moment, his head somewhat like the snowiness of an untuned TV channel.

“What the fuck?!”

“Prostate,” Beric murmurs smugly. “Checking you have one. Think of it as a health examination. Male health is a very important consideration, Ramsay.”

“If you don’t do it again I’m sending you the fuck home!”

By the time they eventually crawl out of bed, or Beric does at least because Ramsay is starving hungry and is threatening to eat his face if he isn’t fed and therefore demands Weetabix, whatever they have has moved on from not sex, into loads of sex, and possibly there was a tiny bit of something bordering on the soppy the last time, when pain and biting wasn’t as involved, but neither of them really want to address that at the moment. No kissing though. It’s all a little affectionate, kissing. 

It’s strange, Ramsay reflects as Beric wanders about tidying up the shithole of a flat, naked and bruised from battle and sexy as fuck, that the most intimate thing they’ve ever done is when he licked blood from Beric’s chest when he got a little over-enthusiastic at Roose’s wedding. They share all the other fluids, yeah, fine, but saliva, tongues, and snogging?

That’s a bit gay, isn’t it?

 

* * *

 

“Bro!”

“Bro.”

“You’ve surfaced, ye bugger, from the lovely Sansa.”

Tormund plonks three pints on the table, even though only he and Sandor are currently in their customary seats. Clegane looks knackered, lipstick stains smearing his jawline, but exhausted in the smug way of the frequently laid; he still wonders, aloud when drunk, whether Sansa will find someone who isn’t him, but the daft mare seems to be attached - even if Edd Tollett keeps sending her pathetic puppy-eyed moon looks, making Sandor twitch violently. They turned up together, hand-in-hand, and she kissed him adoringly before escaping to sit with Gilly and Jeyne, basking in engagement party gossip. Sam proposed, finally, and it’s all very exciting according to the girls. Ygritte looks vaguely bored with everything, and has bitched constantly about being asked to be a bridesmaid.

Ygritte and dresses are always a very bad combination indeed. Sometimes an extremely flammable combination.

Tor has decided that he’ll ask Brienne to go to the event with him.

He’s been looking at suits, or possibly this awesome black kilt with matching socks and a black shirt, and the sort of boots that Far Right extremists covet. It’ll be a laugh, and he might kiss her properly this time. He might get to snog that fine woman, press her against a wall where she’ll tower over him in heels - does she even wear heels? In Tormund’s fevered imagination she does - and ask him to have her babies.

“Where’s Beric?” Slurping the dark ale. Davos makes sure he has decent brew for the more discerning customers, like the ex-front row bros. Or just Tor, considering how much he spends at  _ The Mayflower _ . It takes a truckload of beer to get him even tiddly, such is the Wildling constitution, and the fact that he’s been drinking solidly since the age of eleven as is Free Folk custom.

“Didn’t come home last night.”

They stare at each other, raising eyebrows in a most significant manner.

“Yeah. Let’s fucking skip over the logistics of that one.” Tormund agrees. Ramsay makes them both seriously uneasy.

“Jon’s won that bloody bet then? Uh, anyway. Who’ll win the game?” Nodding at the screen where the build up is happening.

The montage of Arthur Dayne being amazing is brilliant, but every last player in the room is really bloody jealous of the man’s looks, talent, and seriously attractive girlfriend whose tits threaten to overwhelm the fawning appreciation of the studio commentary team. Dayne grins self-effacingly, runs a hand through his silken blond hair, and Tor wonders how many women just slithered off their seats in sheer lust.

“Ah, Arthur. So beautiful, so very empty-headed.” Oberyn drifts by fondly. “Very good in bed, Ellaria says. He is most flexible given his build. She looks ravishing, yes?” The camera focuses on Martell’s ex, dressed - if those clothes can be considered dressing, because she is more naked than not - in the Stormlands gold and black. Apparently she has been dating him for months, which surprises no one in the slightest.

When Ellaria wants something, there is no point trying to stop her. Only fools do that sort of thing. 

Those breasts could launch a thousand ships, and break the elastic of even more underwear.

“Stranger, is there anyone in the Seven Kingdoms you two haven’t tried to fuck?” Sandor is resolutely not staring at Ellaria Sand’s golden-tanned perfect cleavage that fills half of the screen. Tormund wonders if he should just shield the poor man’s eyes from the hillocks of perfection, so he won’t feel so guilty about accidental lechery. Clegane is surprisingly squeamish about women sometimes, mostly because he’s not got any clue what to do with them. Sansa is an anomaly.

“There is you, Sandor, with your rakish scars. We would conquer you together. Climb the Hound.” A wink. 

“Fuck’s sake! Fucking fuckers!” Snarly Sandor is snarly.

“Ah, so angry when I needle you. It is an aphrodisiac! I must text Willas that he is required.” Another saucy wink, and Martell disappears to the bathroom.

Tormund realises he is giggling like a loon the moment Sandor gives him a death glare, and shoves Beric’s pint at the lowering Clegane as a peace offering.   
  


 

* * *

 

“Usual, Jaime?” Shae glows, teeth white. She gets prettier every time he sees her, but that’s pregnancy hormones for you. Cersei was the same, only bitchier and more prone to attempting to murder her poor drunk husband.

“Go on then. You’re looking lovely today, bearer of my niece or nephew.”

The thought of Tyrion as a father is all at once hilarious and terrifying. Already he is chattering about mini-me, and corporate domination, and a breed of new Lannisters with his intellect and Shae’s impressive ability to get whatever she wants out of everyone. In thirty years time Tyrion/a Jr. will probably be the ruler of Westeros, Essos, and whatever random small islands he/she can gather unto their chest/bosom. Varys makes encouraging noises, and wants to be the Godfather in more ways than one - Vito Corleone prefered purple silk, expensive cologne, and fat pastry chefs, obviously. Once Jaime asked Tyrion what the man does for a job, since no-one seems to know, and his brother grasped his arm tightly, recommending not to probe too deeply into the affairs of Varys’ Cosa Nostra.

In his head Varys is Professor Moriarty. In his head Varys spans the continents with a vast and complicated criminal network, probably trading in hot young men in short shorts and leather vests. In his head Tyrion is Sherlock, and thwarts Varys’ world domination plans with gin and flirting.

“I was sick on Tyrion.” Shae seems thrilled at the fact. “Serves him right for knocking me up.”

“I always knew you were the favourite of all his girlfriends.” They grin, but Shae reaches out, touches his hand, and her expression grows just the slightest bit of serious around the edges. 

“How’re you doing? I wanted to ask without him being here, since you always put on that brave face of yours, handsome. You can’t fool a whore, can you?”

Shae really is the hooker with the heart of gold, she really is that trope off the TV.  When he invited them to dinner to meet the new girlfriend, Tywin made the mistake of calling her a gold-digging hussy, a slut who’d part her legs for anyone with gold, then offered her a handsome payout to dump Tyrion on the spot. The next morning, as Father recovered from Shae’s heavily ring-laden hand slapping him across his arrogant face, Tyrion swore that he was going no contact with his father because for the first time in his life someone, apart from Jaime, liked him enough to stand up for him. _ Screw Tywin _ , he said, _ I’m keeping Shae _ . The two events - girlfriend and telling Daddy to sod off - are the best things that have ever happened to his brother. Finally the little shit can be himself; that sardonic, witty, clever bastard of a man who Jaime adores and fiercely loves. Wants to strangle the vast majority of the time, sure, but what are siblings for if not to try and casually and lovingly kill once in a while? 

“I’m okay. I mean there are days when I want to just drown in a bottle of something sweet and cheap, and wave goodbye to my liver, but we all have days like that, don’t we? To be honest, I feel less shit about the world than I have done for years.”

“Especially if that world has a very tall and lovely blonde woman by the name of Brienne in it?” she suggests, thumb tracing lightly over his knuckles. 

“Who is going out with Tormund fucking Giantsbane.”

“She’s not. They had that one date, and nothing else from there from what I’ve heard.”

“How do you know?” He presses forward, elbow on the bar, fingers lacing with Shae’s. She is wearing rainbow nail varnish, which glitters, and his heart feels as if it wants to burst through his ribs and throw itself at the dartboard in desperate hope. 

“I’m a barmaid, you prat. Beric is the best gossip, and he’s friendly with Hot Pie who is even worse, and he tells me and Tyrion everything. Gay men are the best at finding out everything.”

“Stereotypical woman that you are,” he mocks. “You’ll be telling me next that you’re a fag hag who loves gays because you can go shopping with them and talk about boys. I’d give twenty dragons to see you do that with Ramsay Bolton. Actually, no. Please do that with Ramsay Bolton and I’ll buy the overpriced cot and baby bedroom furniture you’ve got on your Amazon wishlist.”

“He’s not gay, he goes both ways. Anyway, I think I’d enjoy that. We could go fetish shopping and swap kink notes-”

“Not listening. You are the mother of my nibling, I am not listening to you talking about sex.” There is no secret about her past life as a high-class escort. Jaime sometimes compares her life to  _ Pretty Woman _ , and is soundly teased by Shae for his foolishness.

“How do you think it got in there in the first place, hun? Tyrion and I have a very active and exotic sex life-”

He clasps his hands over his ears, accidentally smacks himself across the head with his prosthetic.

“Fuck!”

“Look, Jaime. You’re basically my brother-in-law, and I love you. Do you want me to talk to Brienne?”

The temptation is great. Shae could scope out exactly what the wench thinks, if she might want to spend time with Jaime. Perhaps she’d like to have insanely athletic and sweaty sex, go on a date somewhere like the rugby so they can critique the coaches and players loudly. Perhaps a walk along the Blackwater wrapped in scarves, and then take in the scenery with more bendy shagging against a tree? Fights for dominance, and his mouth at her throat as she asks him for everything he can give? Pentoshi takeaway and television watching. Brienne in a dress shirt that is too small for her unlike in every damned TV show there ever is where the girl is always swamped in cotton even if the bloke is quite slim himself, eating left overs and analyzing the international.

What sort of coward lets a pregnant woman ask a wench if she fancies him? It isn’t like they’re in school any more. Jaime is well into his thirties; he is supposedly an adult though mostly he disagrees with that fact. He is old enough and maimed enough to fight his own wars, even if they are against giant gingers with ridiculous beards, who he is patently ignoring as Tormund hollers at the giant screen where that great dickhead Arthur Dayne looms noble and true and the slightest bit love bitten around the ear.

“I’ll talk to her, but thanks Shae.”

“Gilly and Sam are having an engagement party.” This is followed by the patented Significant Look that Jaime is often too dense enough to recognise. Not this time though.

Next time he sees her, Jaime promises to himself, he will ask Brienne if she wants to go to the ‘do with him.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re getting married Sam, that’s mad. Me and Jeyne have talked about it, but in a few years when we’ve bought the house.”

“It’s so exciting! We’ve got a Pinterest for wedding ideas, and Jon’s said he’ll be my best man, and will you be an usher? Do you think Pod will be my other usher? I’m going to ask him, because he’s been so good a friend when we moved positions, and he’s helped me learn so much. I’m so happy, I can’t tell you! We’re going to have it at Castle Black because they do civil ceremonies, since Gilly is Old Gods and I’m Seven, so we’re going to have it non-denominational, and we’re thinking about black and forest green, possibly some gold, for the colours, and the cake will be one of those inside that when you cut it open it is different colours, but that’ll be black and green as well. And there will be seven tiers, for the Seven, but decorated in leaves and ivy and berries for the Old Gods-”

“Hey you two, how goes?”

“Jon! I’m going to the bar right now. Drink. Want one?”

“Uh….sure?”

“I’m just going to the bar, definitely the bar. I might be a while. I’ll get you one as well, Sam.”

“You okay Robb, you seem in a hurry?”

“Fine! Fine, seriously fine. Oh, there’s Theon. I’ll be back in a bit. Maybe a while?”

“That was odd.”

“Jon, what do you think about wearing a waistcoat with the suit? I’m not sure, since it might add a bit of bulk, but I’ve been looking on the Westernet and bigger men can get away with it and look really smart. Obviously that doesn’t matter for you, because you always look amazing whatever you’re in, but do you think it’s a good idea? I was thinking we could each have them in a different colour, so you could have a black one, and Robb a grey one, and Pod the green one, me in gold, but I might change that about a bit, but what do you think, would that be okay? We could have hats? I’ve seen some brilliant hats, top ones, the tall type, and we could have ribbons about the brim - is it the brim? The bit where the hat meets the brim, maybe? We could do that and-”

“Oh. Yes. I think Robb needs my help with drinks, so I’ll just go and help him. I’ll grab you some pork scratchings. I might be a while, I need to talk to Theon about something. It’s really important. Yes, very important.”

“Thanks Jon, you do think of everything.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Mayflower _ is crowded as Tyrion always lowers drinks prices during internationals, and Brienne gingerly wades her way through the throng. Various players call their hellos, and she is kissed by an already very drunk Theon which causes growling from somewhere she cannot quite pinpoint, but finally she is spat out near the bar where Davos and Stannis talk very quietly, very closely, and very blushingly.

Internal squeeing is had.

They are just adorable, and since they keep touching - tiny suggestions of fingertips, or a hand upon a wrist, or a brush of knuckles to forearms, all very repressed and manly - it seems that her dreams of them finally realising they are in like with each other have finally fruited.

“Usual, Brienne?” Davos smiles, kind as ever, looking rather tired.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tarth.” The state of Stannis, who is shadowed and hasn’t even shaved and is definitely wearing one of Davos’ shirts almost leads to her to squealing like a stuck pig.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Baratheon. I trust you are well?”

“Very well, indeed, thank you. Very well.” Their eyes meet, and he gives her the tiniest of nods, before Stannis Baratheon, lawyer, rugby team owner, hard-headed mirthless ballbreaker with a heart of stone, smiles. Actually smiles. It lasts a millisecond, but she pats his arm with her usual awkwardness, nodding back to show she understands his Highly Secret Message of Hooking Up With Certain Bar Managers. “Davos and I have been watching  _ The Hunger Games _ as Shireen is fascinated with the book series. I am, of course, reading each novel as we go, comparing and contrasting the cinematic treatment with the novelisation. Whilst I am a purist in the sense that I always prefer to create my own worlds through understanding and analysing the written word rather than merely witnessing it upon the screen, the films are proving enjoyable. Popcorn, I think the term is?”

“Overthrowing a fascist dictatorship and implementing rule by the people is always a good thing,” Davos adds, ever the socialist. He spent half of the ‘80s after leaving the Navy to work as a miner in prison for picketing, throwing coal at a policemen, and general left-wing shenanigans. “Plus the girl is good, I like her. If I had all of my fingers I’d love a go at archery.”

“Compound bows are easier.” She nestles with them, sips her drink. “The strength and force needed to shoot them is far less than a recurve, and they can be easily adapted.”

“We shall go to archery, Davos.” The tone in Stannis’ voice is almost imperious, but in the manner of wanting his boyfriend? Lover? Bit on the side? To have the maximum enjoyment of any given situation. Mr. Baratheon, it seems, is a Seaworth pleaser. “I shall telephone ahead and request tuition.”

The happy companionable silence as the two men unwittingly stare into each other’s eyes is shattered in a moment of discord.

“Brienne?” “Brienne!”

Twin voices, in perfect unison, stereo-loud, and she turns to see Jaime Lannister and Tormund glaring daggers at each other.

“I said her name first!”

“No you didn’t, you enormous ginger cretin.”

“She wants to talk to me, not you. She hates yer guts, Blondie.”

“At least I can eat a baguette without giving it a blow job, Giantsbane.”

“At least I have two hands!”

“At least I have a brain!”

“At least I’ve got enough testosterone ter grow a beard!”

“At least I can spell testosterone!”

 

* * *

 

Bloody Lannister and his southron wiles, standing there and trying to get Brienne’s attention! Grr. Tormund steps forward, looming, weight on his front foot. Why is the jessie even wanting to talk to the woman? He insults her, he shouts, he calls her ‘wench,’ he is deeply unpleasant, and he is nothing but a drunken arsehole who relies on his good looks and fame to squeeze his way through life, like all of the namby pamby south of the Wall types that inhabit everywhere. 

Can Jaime not see that Brienne likes Tor? Kissed him? Held his hand as they talked about weapons, and rugby, and all sorts of wonderful things he’s never talked with a woman about before? Is he seriously that stupid?

Probably.

Brienne shifts uncomfortably, looking from him to Jaime and back again. The urge to fall to his knees and tell her she is the most wonderful woman in the world is really bloody urgent. She is amazing. Simply amazing. Takes his breath away every time he sees her collar bone, or the little mole under her chin, or her movement when she plays. She needs to be scooped up and worshipped like the warrior maid that she is, not neglected by soft-todgered girly boys like Jaime Lannister who never know a good woman even if she is pinned on top of him in a wrestling fight with another man.

 

* * *

 

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Giantsbane bristles in his red-haired manly lumberjack sort of way, and Jaime wonders if kicking him in the balls to shut him up is sporting.

They say all's fair in love and war, after all. But that would upset Brienne, and she’d soothe Tor, and offer to rub it better, and no. Not happening whatsoever.

She shifts uncomfortably, looking between him and Tormund, cheeks red and wenchy. Seven, Brienne is ugly. She is ugly, and different, and not Cersei, and every flaw makes her the best thing since the 1972 defeat of Yi-Ti by 9 points to 3 by the then King’s Landing team*.

“Come with me to Gilly and Sam’s engagement party, wench. Keep me sober.” He watches that hit the mark, hears the roar from Tormund, and her eyes widen just a little. The Gods really were having a sadistic day when they gave Brienne those beautiful sapphires in her awful face, but Jaime doesn’t care any more. He doesn’t give any sort of toss that Brienne is repulsive, taller than him  - though that still stings sometimes - better built, better at rugby and coaching.

He likes her, warts and all.

“No, come with me to the party!” Tor shoves him, all Wildling fury. “I was going to ask her, then you did! Ye colossal twat! I’m so much better than you, Lannister. I’m no’ drunk to start, and I am nice to her. You’re just shitty to Brienne, she deserves better! You call her names, you mock, you get on her arse about every little thing. You don’t deserve a woman like Brienne, Lannister. You don’t deserve someone so bloody good, an’ selfless. Brienne should be worshipped! She’s brilliant, and clever, and funny. She’s beautiful, and a goddess,” and Jaime knows that Tormund means every word of his diatribe, “and the greatest person we know. So ye piss off, twatface, and leave the asking out tae me!” The accent really comes out when Tormund is having a hissy fit.

“Firstly,” and he goes into that flat bored nasal drawl that drives people nuts, “I am aware of the wench’s finer qualities. You didn’t mention her insane legs, the way she smiles when no one is looking, and her ridiculous penchant for being honourable in every situation. Oversight there, Giantsbane. Unlike you, with your pedestal setting, I do not worship her. I look at Brienne as a person, not a goddess. I suggest that you remove her from whatever platform you place her on, and treat her as a woman with her own thoughts and feelings. With flaws. People tend to topple from heights, you know, and break in hideously agonising ways. Trust me. I know.” He waves his arm, poking Tormund with the rubber fingers of his fake hand. 

“Brienne is perfect.” Doggedly. “In every way.”

“You really are the most stubbornly naive person I have ever met. No, actually, the second-most.” He points at the wench, who has gone through red and scarlet and is quickly approaching magenta. “She is the worst, of course. Anyway,” and Jaime leans in, hissing, his sharp gaze never leaving Tormund’s fuming kittenish greeny-blue. The man has foolishly pretty eyes for someone built like a brick shithouse. “If it wasn’t for me, our wench would be happily ensconced in some boutique Stormlands hotel having foot massages from Jon bloody Connington while the Blackfish asks her to name the Storm’s End team for the next game.”

It is fascinating how the pub, so silent even if the commentary team on the television drone every onwards, erupts at that. 

Stannis seems unfazed by the news, but Jaime has known the man long enough to see the vein threatening at his temple, the twitch of muscle under his left eye, the grinding of his teeth. Davos dives for the good whisky, pouring a triple, to try and soothe the Baratheon nerves.

* * *

 

“That is enough!” Brienne wonders who says the words, but realises, belatedly, that they are her own. It is strange hearing her own voice almost out-of-body; much thicker, and huskier, than she ever thought.

“Whatever happened with Brynden and Jon is my business. They asked me to go and play and coach for Storm’s End, but I turned them down. I was going to anyway, but I was-” Jaime watches her, green eyes glittering with an amused malice that she is mostly aware is not directed at her. At least she thinks it isn’t. “I was also reminded of my obligations. My loyalty always remains with King’s Landing. I will not leave just because someone wants me to. That was a low blow, Jaime, especially as I was trying to keep this quiet. There was no reason for me to tell anyone because the matter is moot. I was never going to leave here, and I never would unless mutually agreed. Mr. Baratheon is an excellent sponsor, and I truly believe in this team - more than any I have seen.”

“Secondly, just because I went on a date with you, Tormund, doesn’t mean you have an exclusive right to me or my body. As Jaime says, I am a person with thoughts and feelings - and flaws, I do have them, I promise - of my own. I am very aware of them, actually. I am made aware of them on a daily basis. I am not a goddess. That actually makes me feel quite uncomfortable, to be honest. I am just me. You are a decent man, and I really enjoyed that date, but perhaps we shouldn’t go on another one if you are so set on thinking of me as something that I’m not. It’s unfair to you, me, if I cannot be what you want me to be. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. You are a wonderful friend, and I do appreciate everything that you have done, the support that you have given. I am sorry, but I can’t go with you to the engagement party.”

It feels softly sad, and muddy, especially when Tormund nods, not understanding but accepting. Thankfully Sandor is on hand to force beer into his trembling hand, sling a meaty arm around the redhead’s big shoulders, take him away to their table in a shell shocked state that makes Brienne feel like a total and utter heartbreaking bitch. But what else can she do? Her whole life she has been herself, rebelliously unrepentant when finally more at ease within her skin. Attention, when overly positive, is as painful and itchy as the negative. She is just herself, every inch herself. She cannot be Tor’s goddess because Brienne is no deity. She is a tall, gangly, angled woman with the usual foibles, personality twists, and oddness that any other mortal possesses. Ignoring that is as dangerous as someone fixating on her defects; just as destructive.

Others will probably shake her, scold her about missed opportunities with a good man. So many want to be worshipped, adored, above all others. Brienne? She is one of the boys. She is just Brienne. All her life she has carved her own little place in the world; she is under no illusion of what she is, how she appears to herself, to others. To wilfully overlook what makes her, to place lofty titles upon her without understanding her as a whole, is insulting. Of course Brienne knows Tormund would never mean it like that, would be horrified that his well-meaning works sting so very deeply, but she has been hurt enough before to be protective of her tender heart.

She does not need a man to place her above all others, only to be shocked when the pedestal crumbles and he finds that she is just a woman. Brienne just would like, if possible, someone who respects and appreciates her, thinks her a good person, considers every tiny part of her, from her broken nose to her naivety, her scars to her stubborn as a mule nature. Her triumphs. Her failures. Everything.

Is that really too much to ask?

“Thirdly,” and she rounds on Jaime with his arrogance and beauty, because she hates agreeing with him even if Brienne doesn’t voice the fact, and damn him even more, he is just glorious in that dark red shirt. “You have no business attacking Tor in such a way. You insult me, you call me names, you treat me like I’m just a foolish little girl playing at rugby, when I am a capable professional with experience, and drive, and passion for what I do. Yes, I am sorry your nose was placed out of joint when I came and took your job, but that wasn’t my fault. Yes, I know you’ve had an awful time of everything, but don’t you see how lucky you are? You have a brother who loves you, and people who think the sunshine shines out of you. You are talented beyond belief, and handsome. Witty, and funny. Underneath everyone you are a good person, even if you don’t choose to believe it. Yes, you lost your hand, and yes, it is horrible, but stop punishing yourself and everyone else around you, people who matter and who care, because of-”

Jaime’s face doesn’t change, but those mesmerising green eyes glow, oddly satisfied.

“Come to the party with me. Slay my demons with your honour, wench.”

Nothing else in the room registers. Just Jaime, and his glittering gorgeousness, his arrogant looks and demeanour tempered by something softer lying under the surface.

It takes so much to shake her head, watch the carefully created expression harden into emerald, and Jaime laughs overly-sharp as Brienne is swept away by Oberyn into the corner booth.

“Strong girl,” Martell murmurs, stroking her hair. Willas apologises in agreement.

 

* * *

 

Fuck. Fuck.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

“Shae?”

“Jaime?”

They stare at each other for long moments, and Jaime’s teeth itch, his chest feels compressed and achy, his liver screams for retribution and self-harm. Everyone saw him be turned down by the ugliest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei will piss herself laughing, and his ego is ground to dust.

“Double lime in the lemonade.” He grinds the words out, all the time fighting the allure of cheap spirits. The tempting bottles seem to be staring at him.

She reaches over the bar and kisses his cheek, scented with that exotic Tyroshi-ness she possesses. “Give her time, sweetling. Give her time.”

* * *

 

“But - she is a goddess?” Tormund, more than anything, is bewildered. He sups his pint like it is the only thing keeping him from doing something rash, like declaring love to Brienne, or smashing Jaime fucking Lannister in the face with his glass, or going full Wildling, tearing off all his clothes, and going medieval with a pool cue.

“Fuck’s sake, you wanker.” Sandor snorts. “ Coming on so strong that you get friendzoned? I’m impressed, you cunt.”

“Don’t laugh. I’m in mourning, you bastard.” At least Lannister looks as pained from the back, all hunched over his glass as Shae mothers him like an exotic hen. “Why does she not think she’s a goddess?”

“Imagine,” and Sandor seems to prepare himself for a speech. It happens approximately every six months and mostly when he is drunk and maudlin. “That you’re fuckin’ ugly as shit, you’ve known nothin’ else than that. People mock the shit out of you, rip the piss, you’re a laughing stock, right? So you get over it, eventually, because fuck the world, fuck the rest of ‘em, you’re you. You’re okay with being you, it makes sense. Then some cunt comes along, says you’re a goddess, says you’re the bollocks and all, and you freak the fuck out, bro. Because you know, better than every bastard born apart from the ugly shits like yourself, that people are just people. Shitty and useless like the rest of them. So yeah, you screwed up, you dick, and put a shitload of expectation on her, and she’s all ‘nope, get the fuck away, I’ll break your heart when you come to the conclusion that no woman’s a goddess, no man’s a god, and we’re all cunts at the end of the day.’”

Tormund blinks. “That’s philosophical.”

“Edd’s rubbing off on me. Not like that, you dirty cunt. Go to the engagement, cop off with some hot Wildling bint Gilly’s inviting, with massive tits and hips, go out with her for a while, knock her up and have kids like you always wanted. Without all this complicated shit. Brienne’s a good bloke, but she’s fucked up like me, and you, and the blond fucker, and everyone else. You’d be disappointed when she’s not the goddess, right?”

“Easy for you to say.” 

“Years of cynicism and being a cunt.” Sandor kicks him, albeit in a friendly manner.

By the time Beric turns up, suspiciously cheerful and humming to himself and definitely looking as if he’s been through some sort of Dondarrion-sized mangle given the various bites and scratches, and the Stormlands has thrashed the Vale 34-13 - Dayne scoring two tries, of course - Tormund has eaten every single packet of Mini Cheddars in the entire building.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * 1972 New Zealand tour of the UK, France, and the US - Llanelli, an amateur club team, beat the All Blacks 9-3. It is still celebrated by the Llanelli lot. Seriously, rugby is our religion here (and we are all non-conformists, I swear). As Max Boyce, the Welsh poet and singer wrote (he wrote _Hymns and Arias_ , the song often sung at Welsh rugby games; he is an institution in himself); 
> 
> _The shops were closed like Sunday and the streets were silent still,_  
>  And those who chose to stay away were either dead or ill,  
> But those who went to Stradey park will remember till they die,  
> How New Zealand were defeated and how the pubs ran dry. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early, 'cos I love you or something. Extra Enormous Chapter for your devouring.

* * *

 

 

“Thank you so much for coming.” Sam beams, his round pink-cheeked face glowing with excitement. “I can’t believe so many people have turned up!”

_ The Mayflower _ \-  where else could a party for one of their own be held, for free, especially with Tyrion giving them the entire bar tab as an engagement/wedding present - is full of balloons, and confetti, and sparkly mirror balls painted black, gold, and green. Swags of voile fabric cover the walls, the heavy oak tables are polished and bright, and it feels like they are all tucked into a hobbit hole. Cosy. Snug.

Podrick can’t quite believe the sheer number of people there, milling about, dancing, someone, and oh no, it’s Theon, setting up a microphone.

Arya grins, kisses his cheek, disappears to hunt her female pack. She has dyed her hair the same deep emerald as the wedding colours, and looks like the angriest of mermaids. It suits her, makes her eyes a lovely grey-green, like the sea. She’s all ripped fishnet tights, and little black shorts, with clumpy boots and a strappy black vest top that shows the illicit tattoo on her shoulder blade. The Stark family wolf snarls in greyscale, teeth slightly red.

It is very Arya, and he traces his fingers over it when she is snuggled in his arms, talking in her sleep about Cheerios and lager.

“Looking good, Samwise.” He punches his friend gently on the arm.

“Not bad yourself, Bilbo.” A responding gentle punch, then a shake of hands. They are, after all, polite and old-school.

They bonded over rugby, first, then an encyclopaedic knowledge of Tolkien. Now they have epic fantasy-fuelled conversations, minor disagreements which lead to apologies and both sitting on the fence about everything since they do not want to upset the other, and cinnamon bun nibbling between classes. Sometimes they branch out to carrot cake and a latte if they are feeling particularly dangerous. Sam is reading theology and history, and it fits well with Pod’s philosophical and mathematical mindset. There is a lot of tea drunk, and earnest conversations, and thoroughly athletic eyebrow waggling.

“I can’t believe Gilly is letting you have a Hobbit-themed wedding.”

Sam leans forward, and he looks ridiculously happy. “She said she’d be my Rosie for all time. Rosie, Pod! She’s my Rosie! Just only we know it is Hobbity, we’re not telling anyone, apart from you, obviously. We’re going to have  _ Concerning Hobbits* _ as our recessional, I’m dying to see how many people get it - bet they won’t! I’m having the One Ring as my band, and Gilly is having Nenya. When are you and Arya-?”

“One day, maybe.” A flirt of those expressive brows, a faintly bashful tug of lips.

Their cheery geeky chatter, about translating the marriage vows into Quenya, is interrupted by a rather harassed looking Professor Tollett.

“There’s a girl,” he says, obviously on the edge of a panic attack. His long bony hand finds Pod’s wrist, gripping firmly. 

“Is this the one-?”

“Yes!” he hisses, frantic. “Yes, it is.”

“What’s wrong? Isn’t she like you expected?”

This all started the moment someone swiped right on Edd’s internet dating profile, the one that Podrick helped him set up, and he’s been carefully talking to the woman over the chat messenger service for the last three weeks. She comes across as witty, fiercely intelligent, and thoroughly charming, and Edd has been almost enthusiastic about the entire meeting. On a whim - the first the man has ever had - he invited her to the engagement party. Edd is wearing a suit; everything he always wears is charcoal, or grey, or dusty black. He looks really good apart from the panic burbling. 

“No.” Oh dear.

“Did her photos lie?”

“Yes.” The hand tightens, and Podrick wonders how long it takes for the blood supply in his arm to wither and die. “They did, it’s awful, Payne. It is awful. It is the worst thing I have ever seen.

He points.

Podrick and Sam stare, gaping.

“She’s called Missandei,” Edd whimpers, hiding behind Pod. It is easy to do, when Tollett is trying to make himself small and insignificant, like an alarmed rabbit being stalked by a beautiful yet murderous weasel.

“Um. She’s stunning?” She really is. She is more than that. She is so gorgeous that Theon doesn’t seem to know what to do. He skirts about the edge, boggling, drinking cider. Pod knows exactly what the issue is, however, and just waits for confirmation from his pessimistic professor.

“I know. What’s wrong with her? There has to be something wrong with her, for her to swipe right on me. Why would someone like her want to meet someone like me? It’s all going to end horribly, is it not?”

And there it is.

 

* * *

 

“Varys, you could have dressed up for the occasion,” Tyrion drawls sarcastically, well into his fifth pina colada. He picks the pineapple out of the stickiness with a glare, throws it in the general vicinity of Davos, who knows his views of unnecessary drink dressing up things. He almost took his eye out on a tiny paper umbrella once.

“I look splendid, don’t I?” His friend preens. Where he managed to get a purple suit from, Tyrion doesn’t really need to know, but the lilac shirt and perfect matching tie are possibly too much. Oddly, however, never too much on Varys. The man drips flamboyancy. “You’ve not seen the shoes, darling. You’ve never seen anything so divine in your entire life.”

He peers over the edge of the bar, and stares.

“Shit.”

Oxford brogues, the colours of a galaxy**. They are the campest thing he has ever seen, and Tyrion has known Varys for far longer than most people think. The sheer campness of those shoes is some sort of record on the personal scale of Varys’ purple fetish. They have an underlying glitter to the no doubtedly insanely expensive leather. Not that Tyrion judges. He’s got peacock tendencies himself when he can be arsed.

“Shit indeed, my diminutive darling friend. Are they not the most wonderful thing in the entire world?” A toe wiggle, admiration obvious.

“...How drunk are you, Vee?”

“Not enough, Tee.” Another gin is pressed into his palm by a passing Davos, who seems to have stubble burn on the side of his neck and a dreamy expression. He is wearing one of Stannis’ smart dress shirts, since they tend to swap clothes freely now, and it is rather too tight about the chest and shoulders. Obviously Varys notices, because he is an unrepentant. 

“He and Stannis,” Tyrion explains, “are at it like teenagers. I found them necking in the cellar earlier. I took photos, if you want.”

“Bluetooth them, dearheart. Next time go for video.”

“Haven’t you got your hands full with Hot Pie?”

“Chefs work too hard,” he moans. “Darling, I’ll pay you to give him another evening a week off. Do you know how hard it is, how I am, when he isn’t around to soothe my inflamed senses and do shocking things with his piping bag?”

Tyrion stares, shakes his head, is thankfully given another pina colada by Davos, who seems to be everywhere, on autopilot, a serene drifting sensibility that is running the entire place single handedly as Shae keeps buggering off to either be sick, pee, or eat something. The barman pours drinks before the customer even asks, by instinct, and seems to be never wrong. Stannis lurks at the end of the bar, a man apart, wearing Davos’ rugby shirt under his suit jacket, sensible forest green tie neatly folded in his breast pocket. Every so often he blinks, smiles to himself almost soppily, then buries his face in that Volanti Pale Ale he seems to have a taste for. No rash there, as Seaworth keeps his beard soft and fluffy, and often asks Shae for conditioner advice.

“All this heterosexual ritual.” A wave of soft pump hands. “If it were my party, it would be so much more fabulous.”

“Do you seriously think Sam Tarly could deal with your level of fabulous?”

“I wish, divine boy that he is. But no. No one can compete with my level of fabulous,” Varys drawls. “Apart from you, my partner in crime, my angel of deviousness, my king of the cartel. Sweetling.”

“Wow, you really are drunk.” Glasses are touched, toasts are drunk. Tyrion likes drunk Varys. He likes any Varys in general, but the sozzled version is hilarious.

A wink. “Almost drunk enough to try and seduce you, but I shall not. Shae looks the sort to use her nails in a cat fight, and I have worked far too hard to perfect my skin for it to be sullied by two inches of acrylic. Do you know how expensive chemical peels are, darling?”

 

* * *

 

Willas can dance, and it is fascinating and arousing and everything in between. Yes, he has to hold on to Oberyn for balance, which Martell has no issue with whatsoever because that means hands full of delightful Tyrell, but he has moves. Slinky, elegant moves at that. He ought to bless Olenna Tyrell for insisting her grandchildren go to the appropriate lessons that all ambitious social climbers need. Ballroom dancing. Etiquette. Willas and his siblings walking about with books on their heads, making themselves tall and elegant and able to walk about with books on their heads, just on the off-chance such a skill is needed.

Not that Willas ever did the book thing correctly, but he is the sort to always try his best at everything. A long leg, the one with the damage, ends up around Oberyn’s waist, and bright hazel eyes sparkle.

Willas is enjoying this, the minx, showing his hidden talents. Delightful boy.

Bronzed hands slither from waist to lean hips, rolling like oil, like silk.

They have attracted an audience, which is thrilling. Dancing the tango, and the Dornish one at that, the dance Oberyn grew up using as a seduction technique which always worked, is undeniably sensual. No inhibition here, not when they are plastered together.Hips sway, thighs and bodies touch. There is a carnality in every move, every long trail of fingers over tempting flesh, across the dips of vertebrae, and Willas’ spectacular backside.

“You did not tell me, sweet boy,” he purrs, feeling the man shiver at the lips at his ear, “that you are so very flexible, so very able?”

“I have had three port and lemons,” Willas says, slurring ever so slightly. It explains the relaxation, the fluidity of limb and the lack of social terror. He has only apologised twice tonight, and the last was when he purposely poured his drink over Oberyn’s chest to encourage him to take his shirt off. 

It worked. Oberyn is half-naked and dancing the tango with Willas, who is devastating in dark green and black. Sam and Gilly encouraged everyone to follow the colour theme, and most have. The richness of colour makes his skin silken pale, like a wedding dress overlaid with lace. Mossy eyes widen, just a little, with more direct contact from Oberyn’s pelvis, the man’s breath catching. Erotic. Sinful. 

“I want you.” His mouth wants that long throat, the pretty mouth. “I may steal you away, lovely one, and make love to you in the bathroom if you keep behaving so wantonly.”

“Slightly unhygienic, but-” He needs to get port and wine into Willas more often, not just thrown about the pub.

The last cubicle in the men’s toilets has been well abused by Oberyn in his little videos he makes regularly, especially if Willas is stuck at work, or at a family event. It is time they truly christened it, is it not? He is dragged away by a determined Tyrell, through clapping and catcalling, and Willas’ limp is far less when he is pissed, Oberyn thinks fondly.    


 

* * *

 

Tormund drinks silently.

Sandor, more industrial metal than ever, and wearing eyeliner in the manner of someone who really doesn’t give a fuck about whatever anyone else thinks of it because, shit, he’s got Sansa fucking Stark staring at him as if he is the most gorgeous man ever to set foot in the pub, is on the Guinness. He couldn’t be arsed with wearing anything not black, though Sansa managed to persuade him that just a hint of green in the corners of his eyes, before it fades to black smudges, is really him. Obviously she likes it, since the woman can’t keep her hands off his chest, or shoulders, and is perched happily on Clegane’s thigh, all in gold, like a living breathing female Oscars statue.

Beric, Ramsay-less for a moment, puts down the tray having volunteered for bar services for the evening. Not that they are paying, but still, he slips into what Tor usually mockingly describes as Daddy Mode. Asks orders, repeats them to make sure they are correct. Brings back little treats like Mars Bars or pork scratchings that he thinks the others may fancy. Usually the man’s hands are large enough to scoop up three pints plus bar snacks, but since they have plus two tonight, he has resorted to the Way of the Tray. Crisp packets stack in his mouth, and he divvies them out; salt and vinegar for Tormund, ready salted for Sansa, steak for Sandor, and peanuts for Ramsay. None for himself, since they always get stolen by-

The psycho descends for a moment, manic and demanding and drinking half of Beric’s pint in a most pointed fashion, stealing the peanuts and his diet Coke, then disappearing back into the writhing crowd.

“He’s tormenting Theon,” Beric says, the corner of his mouth curling, pleased. “He’s arguing that Tarantino is a better director than Scorsese, so we should prepare for a bar fight at some point.” Beric, like Tor himself and Clegane, is also in black. They look like the most menacing men ever to menace anywhere in a menacing manner. Menacingly. 

“Not fucked off he’s talking to Greyjoy?” Sandor opens his crisps, and Sansa steals one, smiling, puts two ready salted ones around it, and feeds it to Clegane. The smile between them, as fingertips brush his friend’s mouth, is both adorable and sickening, and it hurts because Tor never used to be jealous. Not of his Bros. Obviously being envious of what Beric and Ramsay have will never happen, because he doesn’t understand it and definitely doesn’t want it, but Sandor and his woman? Ouch.

“It’s only Theon.” Sometimes Beric can be a bitch. “It isn’t as if he matters, is it?” Sometimes he can be bitchier than anyone can contemplate, especially when feeling secure. 

“He’s been in love with Robb for years.” Sansa makes her own steak crisp sandwich. “Or I think he has, it seems that way. He used to follow him around like a puppy, but Robb is very attached to Jeyne, and I think Theon feels lonely. I think he tries to be with so many people to block the pain of rejection, or to make himself feel wanted. I feel quite sorry for him, but then he does something very Theon-y, and-”

Sansa is hoping to go into child psychology, or something. Tormund doesn’t particularly care. He is moping, after all. The three of the gabble on, about things that really don’t matter whatsoever, or at least Beric and Sansa do and Clegane just watches the redheads chatter, munching his bar snacks and staring at Sansa as if she is the most beautiful woman who has ever walked into the pub ever, and Tormund feels alone. Alone in a crowded room, full of his friends.

Tormund takes his pint, and necks it.

* * *

 

Shae has been sick all over his shoes, and Jaime wonders how come he is the one holding back her hair as she throws her guts up in the lav behind the bar. Fine, yes, she’s done it a million times for him, metaphorically of course, if he had hair to hold back, since his isn’t waist length and all wavy curls that sproing about like mad things, or at least, he does have hair, it isn’t as exuberant as Shae’s, but it is the principle that counts. 

“S’rry.”

“Cersei was worse. She threatened to have my balls removed, stuffed, and mounted on a plaque.”

The woman manages a greyish smile, sits back on her knees with a groan, flushes the loo with a shaking hand.

“When is this going to end, Jayjay?”

“No idea, Shaeshae.”

She wraps her arms around his thighs, rests her sweaty face against his hip. If she were someone else, the act could be construed as sexual, but this is Shae - who is not Cersei (bitch) or Brienne (fuck) - and she loves Tyrion. Jaime might be a bastard, but he is a loyal one. Seducing Shae never crossed his mind, not even in the beginning. 

Blondes are more his thing, obviously.

“Comfortable down there, mother of my nibling?”

“Can I kill Tyrion, have him stuffed, and put on a plaque?” Another groan, another gurgly sound, but she manages to keep herself from projectile vomiting over everything once more. “I hate him. Bastard. He is out there, getting drunk with Varys, and I’m in here, and he doesn’t care, Jayjay. You’re the only one who caaaaaaaaaares-”

Hormones. She’s at the stage where everything is out to get her. Shae’s sobs, harsh and hacking, shudder. Jaime pats her hair, as if she is some sort of poodle, making the requisite soothing noises.

“They’re screwing, aren’t they? They’re at it, and he’s going to run away with Varys, who looks better in a dress than me, and I’m getting so fat, and ugly, and my boobs are going to be awful, and I had amazing boobs, and it’s not fair!”

“Tyrion loves you, Shae, he’ll not run off with Varys. They’d kill each other in a week, and Varys is really into Hot Pie. Think about it? My little brother is a shit, but he told Father where to shove his inheritance, and chose you, remember? He loves you that much.” 

A wail, and the patch where Shae has her head is soggy and suspiciously mascara-stained. When she looks up at him, mid sob, black make up smears across her cheeks, and she looks like the most depressed clown in a circus of dolorousness.

“You alright in there, ducks?” chirrups Hot Pie from outside the locked toilet door. “Any TLC needed, hun?”

“Why is it all the men with questionable sexualities try and get me out of toilets?” Jaime scratches the back of his neck. “Him, Oberyn, Varys. Beric.”

“Because they want to have sex with you!” Her plump lower lip, devoid of her usual dark lipstick, wobbles alarmingly. Here they go again. “They won’t ever want to have sex with me. I look like a heifer!”

“Oh baby girl, I’d totally have straight sex with you,” Hot Pie calls through the door. “You’re so cute, I am so jealous of your cuteness. Oh my God, Shae, you are adorable, you know, shug? You have no idea how sexy that curvy baby mama thing is going on your hips, do you? Babes, you gotta work it, yeah? You gotta stand tall and proud and say ‘ducks, I am the hottest Mummy to Be in Westeros, and I don’t take any shit from anyone.’”

Jaime, thankful for the reinforcements because seriously, Tyrion should be doing this, unlocks the door.

“I think you’re better in here than me.”

“Shug, your shoes-?”

“Sacrificed to the Vomiting Venus.”

“I’ve got some spares if you need, Jaime. Might be a little big, but they’re boots so they’ll tie up tight. Why don’t you go grab ‘em, and I’ll give Shae a cuddle, and a bit of something to eat so Mama and Baby are all happy and perfect, and you can borrow my mascara, duck, okay? We’ll blow your nose, wash your face, and go and get your sexy man back from my sexy man.” He winks at Jaime, rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“How do you compete with Tyrion?” He peels off his ruined shoes - and they are Gucci, and Cersei bought them for Jaime when she wanted him to make him into some sort of label whore, because she is like that, and perhaps they weren’t as nice as he thought, these shoes? - and socks, rinses them out under the tap. It really doesn’t work, whatsoever. They sit there, pathetic and water-soaked, the faint tinge of vomit scent lingering.

It must be strange for the two of them, when their partners are for all intents and purposes having an emotional affair and have been for about fifteen years.

“Hot fudge sauce, caramel choux, and blow jobs, shug.”

“...I really shouldn’t have asked.”

“Go away, Jaime, and find those boots. In the closet, next to the radiator. You’ll know ‘em. Come on Shae, lets go and have a lovely girl chat and bitch about those men of ours?” Hot Pie gathers the sniffling and pathetically thankful woman up, arm about her waist, and whisks her off somewhere hopefully non-food prep orientated. Otherwise the chunky salsa might be a little less tempting, after all.

Boots.

Closet.

A quick foot wash and dry later, and he is staring at Hot Pie’s spare boots.

Well, he’s not surprised, given the general Hot Pieness of Hot Pie, and at least they are black.

To be honest, he’s worn worse.

 

* * *

 

Deep breath. Shoulders back. Oh God.

The worst thing in the world is to walk into a room full of people dancing, singing, enjoying themselves, cheerfully going about the simple act of having a lovely time, and then everything stopping to stare. At you. Because really, if that doesn’t want to make Brienne turn tail and run, nothing else will.

“Holy shit,” Theon slurs, and he isn’t looking at her face. “Those are, like, some legs, lady dude.”

Others agree, in levels of drunkenness, and Brienne itches to pull the hem of her dress down just that little bit further. Just a tiny bit.

It is All. Varys’. Fault.

When someone like him overhears someone like her sadly commenting on being too tall, too straight up and down, too wide in the back for the usual women’s clothing shops, and not plus-size enough to just go in and buy something without paying for tailoring, and always having to go to the menswear section? Never trust them. Never think about letting them suggest certain clothing stores that you have never heard of. Especially never let Varys suggest, over bitter lemon and gin - her on the former, him happily in the depths of the latter - to take you there himself in his surprisingly flash two-seater sports car which costs about as much as Brienne’s ancestral home on the Sapphire Isle. Obviously not on a day where alcohol is involved, because of Galladon. Only a few people know about that, and Varys is one of them because he knows everything there is to know about you, and how he knows, you don’t know.

If you do all this, never allow him to insist he introduce you to the exquisitely dressed women with the magnificent figures and fantastic make up. Never let them eye you like a side of beef and start squealing about a makeover, because Varys will throw you to the metaphorical hounds. He will sit there, sip tea, make comments about things being too long, or loose, or the wrong shape or colour. He will make suggestions, most of which you think are terrifying, because the dresses get shorter, and tighter, and worryingly sparkly. Some of them are even pink.

Then you look at the price tags.

Then you realise that Varys is wielding an Iron Bank of Braavos platinum and black credit card like a Valyrian blade. It has no credit limit.

Then you finally click that the women who have seen you naked, apart from your knickers that have Batman on the arse, are drag queens. This is a shop that caters for men who want to look incredible in women’s clothing. This is why all the dresses fit so well. For a moment you are terrified because men have seen you naked, then you understand that they have no interest in you whatsoever and are a couple. Thankfully, that is something of a relief. You relax, just a little, because to be honest it is quite nice being pampered. They fuss, and not exactly flatter, but they are enthusiastic, tell you that you are gorgeous, and have incredible abs, and thighs, and they are so jealous of your fitness levels and tone.

You feel okay. This is okay. In the confines of this shop - and it is the sort of boutique that only allows in one client at a time, because they don’t have customers, they have clients, and it is you, the two drag queens, and Varys, who is having a lovely time playing dress up - everything is fine.

Then shoes are found. They have heels. You never wear heels because you are six foot three, and these are at least four inches tall, but you put them on and feel like an Amazon warrior. Then underwear, because Varys says your knickers are the same as seven year old boys wear. The new knickers are disconcertingly lacy, and see through, and you have a horror of wearing them because they are so pretty, and so naughty, and you can’t sully them with your body. When you buy new underwear for yourself, it lies neatly packaged in a drawer for three months before you get up the courage to break it out and step away from the pants with the fraying elastic and the slightly moth-eaten crotch.

Everything is whisked away into a posh bag, and Varys pays for it, a strange glint in his purple eyes - and you wonder if he does wear contact lenses because the only other person with eyes that colour is Dany Targaryen, and everyone knows why she looks like she does, and then you wonder if they are long-lost relatives;didn’t her family come from somewhere near Lys centuries ago? - and then you are ordered, under fear of death, because he is frightening and this is a military operation of the likes never seen in King’s Landing, not even during the Rebellion so many years before, to go and have a manicure, facial, and he’ll do your makeup when required.

And then he does, an hour before you are due to the party. He sits you down, and does things. Arcane, terrible things, with eyebrow pencils, and the sort of lipstick that dries on so it won’t get smudged on glassware and people, and black liner. He says he is keeping it light, and fresh, and modern, but flattering your unique facial structure, and by the time he finishes you are moisturised, primped, preened, to within an inch of your life.

You still look like you, but you in high-definition. All cheekbones, and big blue eyes, and dewy skin. He attacks your hair with mousse and texturising spray, and you are that fierce Amazonian warrior.

You...like it. It is still you, but just a little more confident. War paint. The dress, which is armour. The shoes, that can kill. Your nails shimmer, just a little, still sensible in length, with a Myrish manicure in ‘nude.’

Smugness radiates from your left.

“Go finish dressing, darling, and I’ll see you there.” The amount of purple he wears is obscene, but it suits him. You also really love his shoes. You need to ask him where he got them, because you can see yourself wearing something like them when you are in your black trouser suit. You find that the concept of ‘a pop of colour’ isn’t that scary after all.

Better than the ones Brienne is wearing, which are four inches of stabby death stiletto madness, and she just hopes she can get to the bar without falling over. In the confines of her flat, or the boutique, she was perfectly content. Now, in public, being stared at - Brienne, all six feet seven inches of Goddess, and she hates the word, hates it because it reminds her of Tor’s hurt blue eyes - swallows, aware of everyone watching, gawping, before she strides across the room to the bar where a very relaxed and floaty Davos has her diet bitter lemon waiting.

 

* * *

 

“Miss Tarth.”

“Mr. Baratheon.”

“You look...very nice this evening.” He cannot articulate how incredible Brienne looks, so fails spectacularly. The deep green dress she wears is high necked at the front, and long sleeved, the sequins overlapping so seeming as if she is wearing a chainmail surcoat that ends approximately a foot above her knees. It is the back though, that makes the outfit; there is none. Just Brienne’s skin and long muscles, naked to where the dip of her spine above her buttocks threatens. With her slicked hair, and eyes black-rimmed with that stuff women tend to wear and Stannis doesn’t understand how they can draw straight lines on their eyelids with it, she looks like a cross between a warrior woman and a rather handsome sixth form boy. Androgynous. Incredibly tall. Slinky.

Feeling vaguely uncomfortable at being towered over so thoroughly, Stannis perches on a bar stool.

“It’s lovely that so many have turned out for Sam and Gilly. They really do look so happy together.”

“The dress code is, I find, a little demanding. Some of us have ignored the request-” Varys for one, who wears nothing at all resembling black, green, or gold, the despicable ingrate. “I have, however, tried to maintain decorum.”

He wore a green tie. What more can people want?

Davos, who looks very handsome with that shirt unbuttoned to his collar bones, finishes off a complicated round for the students, takes up his usual position by Stannis, sips at whatever the vile green non-alcoholic cocktail concoction he has created for the evening is. It tastes of apples, and Stannis only knows this because his partner - not boyfriend, or lover, for those words found far too insignificant and youthful and, above all, trite - tastes of the nauseating stuff. So many e-numbers that he worries for the state of the pub, given that someone has decided (Theon) that adding tequila to his glass of punch is a truly wonderful idea.

No wonder karaoke threatens.

Stannis wonders if it would be acceptable to eviscerate himself with a butter knife. Knowing his team, and he does, to a worrying extent, someone will attempt to force him to sing. The last time he sang in public, he was thirteen and a choirboy at the Great Sept. The septons forced him to wear a ruff, red robes, and Robert laughed himself sick for an entire month.

“I’ll save you,” Davos murmurs, shortened fingertips touching Stannis’ wrist, sending a lovely electricity down his spine. “I’ll go and sing sea shanties at the buggers.”

Mind. Wandering.

Davos, salt-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, battling the wheel of the sailing ship as the Royal Navy rides out the storm after the Battle of the Blackwater. He is not an officer, just a loyal first mate, only the saviour of  _ HMS Lightbringer _ . The Lysene forces run scared into the raging tempest, threatening to be dashed upon headlands and sandbanks, but Seaworth will not let the crew die. He forces the wheel, torso working, as Captain Baratheon drags himself nobly from his sick bed. The wound in his shoulder, from a flying musket ball, threatens his health, his sanity, but he must kiss his rescuer; the man who dragged him below ships, who bathed his fevered brow with cooled water, fed him sips of broth, before he dies-

Davos quietly pushes a notepad at him, smiles with an odd indulgence crinkling his numerous laughter lines. He has grown used to Stannis zoning out those fantasy epics. They are carefully working their way through that saved file on his laptop, though with some revision; after all, Seaworth is pushing fifty, and not quite as spry as he was two decades before.

But then neither is Stannis, even if he is stubborn. He put his back out a week and a half ago, and Davos tweaked a hip on, well, landing he supposes.

 

* * *

 

“Stop being miserable, you twat,” Sandor rumbles. “Fuck’s sake, I’m bored of you sittin’ about like a right wanker.”

“Bro,” Beric warns. “He’s hurting, Sandor.”

“He’s pissing me off.”

Tormund stares, glumly, to where Brienne leans against the bar. She looks amazing, like always. She looks like a goddess, and that tastes bitter.

He is pained, a sore dull ache in his chest that doesn’t seem to want to go away no matter how much beer he drinks. It has been what, six? Eight weeks? More than that, maybe, since the party took a long time to plan, and they are well into the rugby season now. The pain has lessened, isn’t as sharp and agonising, and it isn’t a constant stabbing of ‘she turned you down, you pillock,’ but it surfaces when he isn’t really thinking; drinking, sleeping. In the shower. Watching telly with Clegane as they both have an affinity for daytime TV, especially programmes about antiques hunting, or house buying. They tape  _ Homes Under the Hammer _ and  _ Bargain Hunt _ every day, and watch them whilst eating tea.

“He needs a fucking woman to take his mind of that fucking woman.” Clegane points a thick finger at Brienne, who shimmers in the low lighting. “Three bastard months he’s been fucking about the flat, and it’s got to end, tonight, even if I got to shag him myself.”

“I love her.” Mournfully. “She’s my goddess.”

“No she isn’t. No you don’t.” The brutal reply. “Any of what I fucking told you sunk into your thick skull?”

Beric frowns for a moment, considers, nods affably, disappears. He wears that expression that Clegane knows only too well as ‘I am going to do something about this, right now, in a caring and brotherly manner, unlike you Sandor, because I love my bros, and I dislike them being upset.’ Beric is like reading a book.

“I know. I know! I do, but she’s lovely. She’s wife material. She’s perfect.”

A heavy hand finds the back of Tormund’s head.

“Ow!”

“Stop being a cunt, Giantsbane.”

Reduced to silence now. He finishes his pint, starts on the next.

 

* * *

 

She speaks nineteen languages, and they discuss Kirkegaard and Rousseau in the tongues in which the philosophers worked. She disagrees and cites sources, works, letters, and he replies with his own theories that are published in extremely well-received papers that he is never pleased with; nothing is ever right for Edd Tollett.

She is beautiful. He cannot deny that, even if he is Professor Edd Tollett. He is not blind, which he supposes he should be thankful for, and knowing him, it will happen one day when he least expects it.

She listens to him, asks questions that challenge and intrigue, chin upon her hand and her other touching his arm. Slightly suspicious, perhaps, thinks Edd?

She is very pretty indeed, inside and out. He wonders where her ugliness must lie, but he cannot find it. Perhaps Professor Edd Tollett is not looking hard enough?

She has a wonderful and sophisticated sense of humour. She even laughs at his ‘jokes’. She must be humouring him, thinks Edd.

She kisses like no one else, because no one else has kissed him, for he is Dolorous Edd.

Missandei, who is far too good to be true, is kissing him on the middle of a packed dance floor. No, this is, as the younger generation put it, even though technically Edd is still part of that generation, snogging. Blur are singing about a  _ Country House _ , and perhaps, thinks Edd Tollett, Professor and professional cynic - but his heart isn’t in it, his usual pessimism, as the song on the speakers proclaims - this might all come to a horrible, sticky, nasty conclusion when it turns out she has been paid to do his, or she is actually barking mad, or he gets run over by an errant taxi whilst crossing the road in three days time, but perhaps he should just try and enjoy something for once?

Awful idea. Terrible. Her mouth is soft and yielding, and she smells really nice. Like sunshine.

He awaits the rain, of course, but kisses back because he might as well have an iota of fun before it all goes tits up?

 

* * *

 

“You.” Someone takes Tormund’s glass, sets it down on the table, and he looks up.

Blinks.

She is very blonde, hair curling in a thick plait over her shoulder, and she has the confident stance of a woman of the Free Folk. Unlike almost everyone else, in wedding party colours, she is head to toe in white; white furry thing around her shoulders, white shirt tucked into white jeans, long white boots with a chunky, sensible heel. She looks like a blizzard, and she speaks like a Wildling with the inflections of Hardhome, and Tormund?

Tormund stares. She looks like the queen from that Disney film that he and Beric sometimes act out - Beric prefers to be Elsa. They harmonise  _ Let It Go _ really well for two big men who play rugby and do many butch things like eat steak and talk about tractors.

“I am stealing you,” she says, “because you are going to dance with me.”

“Steal-?”

“Not in the old way.” Her eyes scan him, calculating, bright, a hint of clever humour in her flirtation. “Unless you’re a good lad. Then we’ll talk.”

“I’m not really-”

“Of course you are,” Beric interjects. He has bite marks up the inside of his forearm, and a cheerful expression that tilts towards the ‘if you don’t do as I say, I have a pet psychopath who I will unleash, so play nicely, Giantsbane, or else.’ “I’ve told Val all about you, Tor. She’s never been to King’s Landing before, she’s down here because she and Gilly have known each other for years. Since you and her have so much in common, you are she are going out for dinner tomorrow night.”

“We are-?”

“To that place where they sell the rare Rayder. I made reservations. Val is a whisky expert. She also just split up with her partner, so you can commiserate together.”

“You are-?”

“Aye, I am. I work with Mance. I was shaggin’ him. Now come dance, big man. I want to see if those hips are as promisin’ as they seem.”

Tor cannot really cope with this, but he finds his hand in this Val woman’s own, being propelled towards the dance floor. She is tiny, and bosomy, and she yells in his ear when he bends down that he’s got a magnificent arse, and if daft southron besoms don’t appreciate that in a man, well all fool them. 

 

* * *

 

Ramsay contemplates a vol-au-vent, decapitates it, and sulkily eats the filling with a finger.

“You have the manners of a spanner,” Beric murmurs.

“Hate people. Hate karaoke. Hate you.”

“Just because you can’t sing anything by the Sex Pistols here doesn’t mean you hate the world.” Dondarrion is being reasonable, and it makes Ramsay want to stab things. There is no metal cutlery, just plastic shit, and he wonders if that is because he is there, and they are worrying that he might try and castrate the next person who tries to murder a feminist anthem. Cyndi Lauper does not deserve that. 

They forget he has his ultimate weapon; his teeth. He can go a-gelding with them.

Fuck it all. Ramsay growls, rolls his head onto Beric’s chest, and sighs, defeated. No one shall die this day. All will live, unfortunately. Even Jeyne, Ygritte, and Sansa, who are shrieking out  _ It’s Raining Men  _ like banshee.

“You’re being really good, by the way. I’m proud."

“Make me sound like a six year old, you cock.”

“When you mature to secondary school age, I’ll be able to let you out on your own. Until then, I shall have to supervise you in public.”

“Bitch.”

Where fingers normally stroke, up his neck and into his hair, scritching lightly, Beric aims a fond kiss. It is a relatively new thing, since Ramsay is still weird about showing affection in public, but Dondarrion argued that since they’ve been basically cuddling at the bar for however long it was  before they started having the sex thing, and now the officially going out together thing is happening, surely a kiss to the back of his head isn’t that different?

Ramsay can talk about sex, bondage, BDSM, shagging, fucking, biting, bleeding, whatever else without any compunction. He can discuss in depth the application of electrodes to genitalia, or the best sort of whip to flay flesh from bone, or which muscle groups twitch and strain the best when a body is suspended by various parts. He can name every type of collar and cock cage, and piercing, and why and where and what and how. Sounding? Fine. CBT? Sure. Nipple torture? Whatever. Knowing how to peel little bits of skin off people for fun and excitement? Easy.

Anything that involves feelings, or being soft?

That makes him not so much shy, but seriously uncomfortable. Emotions, Roose always tells him, are for the weak.

Well. Fuck Roose in the ear. Not literally, because he isn’t a Targaryen, and ugh, but no. Fuck him. Dad is happy with Walda, to the point where his devious and murderous father seems almost interested in discussing themes for the baby’s room. They are going for White Walkers, apparently, the LEGO ones, or cartoon leeches. Either or, apparently. He even bothered to telephone Ramsay and give him the ‘good’ news that he is to be a brother, rather than the usual terse email listing the younger Bolton’s many faults with a p.s. on the end saying that he is disinherited because of a shiny new and very legitimate sibling.

Ramsay has progressed to allowing Beric to hold his hand, without trying to hide what they are doing under tables, or behind backs, and is quite proud of that. The way his bitch softens at that, at his touch - at Ramsay Bolton’s touch, even when there isn’t pain involved - that feels kind of good?

Even if it is really gay. Because, fuck it, it is.

 

* * *

 

Jaime re-emerges, tells Tyrion about Shae having a minor melt-down, tells Varys that she and Hot Pie are conspiring their deaths, and makes his way down the bar to-

Well.

It hits him, like an avalanche, that he has been wrong. Seriously, tragically, all-consumingly wrong.  He is so wrong that it makes him want to do a Shae and be sick on someone’s feet. The nearest are Davos’, since Hot Pie’s boots are expensive, and he rather not have to walk around on the sticky floor of The Mayflower in bare tootsies. Who knows what lurks deep within the slightly dodgy-patterned pub carpet?

Jaime swings between feeling sick, and feeling turned on. Perhaps they are the same thing - perhaps he is so aroused by Brienne that he wants to vomit with it?

Brienne nods a polite hello.

Okay, it is a cliche. The sort of thing in teen films, often based on Shakespeare comedies, where a girl takes her glasses off, brushes her hair, and is the hottest thing in the entire school on prom night. The stupid jock who secretly adores her, but is afraid to sully his reputation by asking her out because she’s ugly and unpopular, loses her to the nerdy but adorable geek who loves her for herself.

Tormund is out of the running, and is not an adorable nerdy geek, but an insufferable ginger wanker.

Gods. He is a stupid man. A seriously stupid man. What has he done? And now, if he tells her she is gorgeous, and that he’s sorry, and all that shit, it’ll look like he is seduced by her wearing that dress that fits to her incredible body so well, and? There’s no back? He can almost see the top of her arse cheeks. He therefore imagines them, all muscled and firm and clenching. That just makes Jaime-

Shit. Shitshitshit.

He thought he’d got past the spontaneous hard-on stage.

Her back, the knobs of her spine, and his tongue. One night. No. More than one night. A whole series of nights, perhaps, of sweaty licky sex, and arguing, and take out food. Walks on the beach. Possibly adopting a cat.

Play it cool, Lannister. Bravery. Thy name is Jaime.

“Wench, how tall are you tonight?” Thankfully his voice seems pretty normal, drawly and amused, masking both erection and regret.

“Six feet seven.”

Jaime comes around the end of the bar, stands next to her, desperate to see if the skin at the small of her back is as warm and smooth as it seems. He almost goes for the friendly palm to the base of the spine, but cries off at the last moment. He rather not have a stiletto heel to the instep.

“A measly inch then. You remain towering over me, you enormous woman.”

She looks down, frowning and confused, before her big wide beautiful mouth pulls into an unwilling grin, her hands - and her nails are done, and part of him hates it. Where is the mud, and the dirt, and the nibbling? Where is proper Brienne? Who tastes of rugby, and bitter lemon, and politeness? Yes, she looks incredible, a wet dream, and he is so bloody pleased that he wore a shirt that didn’t need tucking in, and those tight jeans that he knows make his arse look amazing when he bends over, but this isn’t Brienne.

“What are you wearing, Jaime?” Those gorgeous eyes, and they are beautiful, like she is, because Jaime is an arsehole, he knows that, he is a sorry pathetic arsehole who needs a teenage cliche to see what is in front of him, sparkle with an ill-concealed merriment.

He pulls himself up to his tallest height, chin in the air, extra arrogant.

“Shae threw up over my shoes, so I had to borrow Hot Pie’s ‘90s throwback hooker boots***. Look, I laced them up, and everything.”

Davos delivers his usual, humming along to  _ Dead Ringer For Love _ . Jon and Robb are wailing at the microphone, and of course Snow is Cher in that weird little duo.

It hits, a caress and a warmth and, more than that, a hope beyond hope that sizzles in his chest.

Brienne called him Jaime.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Someone, unnamed, might have had _Concerning Hobbits_ for their recessional *cough*  
>  ** All hail Varys' epic [oxfords!](http://shop.kulturpon.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Paul-Parkman-Mens-Wingtip-Oxfords-Purple-Navy-Handpainted-Calfskin4.jpg) I want them.  
> *** All hail Hot Pie's ['90s hooker boots!](http://www.badkitty.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/e/l/electra-2020-b.jpg). I want them. Also Varys is totally the butch one in that relationship.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

 

Singing. They are singing.

Stannis closes his eyes tightly for a moment, remembers he is driving a 24-seater minibus, narrowly avoids a marauding sheep, and defaults back to teeth grinding. To his left, in the passenger seat, Davos sucks on a sherbert lemon and emits a reassuring aura.

Why is it that Stannis is the only one who has upgraded his driving licence to include 7.5 tonne vehicles, or can be bothered to get behind the wheel? Dondarrion can drive a tank, but is unable to use manual transmission. What sort of man can wield an armoured personnel carrier in anger, but has to keep using that geriatric and rust-laden automatic Volvo? Giantbane pilots fire engines, but usually turns up tipsy to avoid having to drive. Clegane offers, but he tends towards road rage and a strange hatred of little old ladies in electric cars. Blackwater cannot be trusted. Gendry said he’s willing to learn, since it would help his mechanic career, so that would be the obvious course.

Gendry should be trained. The club would pay for it, because Stannis’ sanity is worth the expense. But next season Gendry is playing for the Blackfish, for Storm’s End, and they shall be in the same predicament. That stings. That feels personal.

It has never been acknowledged, but Gendry resembles a young Robert. Sometimes Stannis wonders about a DNA test, but decided seasons ago to let sleeping stags lie. Some things are better left. Unless by some freak occurrence they require someone with the blood of Robert in their veins for anything, such as infusions, or matching kidneys; perhaps, given his brother’s adoration of booze, they’ll need a liver donor at some point. Then, and only then, will Stannis be stalking Gendry with one of those giant cotton buds, determined to steal a cheek cell sample.

It would be gratifying to have a nephew who is not related to the Lannisters in any way whatsoever.

Only another three hours to go.

Bronn, grinning like a deeply unpleasant thorn in his side, keeps asking ‘are we there yet, Daddy Stan?’ Blackwater is nothing but a vile little shit. Asha Greyjoy just makes him worse.

They are divided, of course they are, just like on a school trip. The more unruly of his pupils, no, players, occupy the back seats. Raucous laughter vibrates, along with that nails on a blackboard singing. Some of them are tolerable, and some, like Bolton surprisingly enough, and, of course, Martell, are talented. Theon is appalling, but enthusiastic, like everything he does in life. Mormont sounds like the bear he so very much adores, glaring at Khal Drogo who has a deep baritone and sounds like a war party.

Drogo does his cultural version of the Haka before every game, shirtless and intimidating, because it upsets Jorah. He sports a new tattoo; Dothraki style dragons over his left pectoral, trailing down his bicep, in white, green, and black. He says it isn’t for Dany, but everyone knows that this is part of the power play between him and Mormont.

He is surprised that Jorah hasn’t been scouring eBay and antiques dealers for petrified dragon eggs, to attempt a one-upmanship moment of momentous proportions.

At least Oberyn did not bring his Dornish guitar this time. At least there are no, and Stannis shudders internally, remembering the endlessness of that particular journey, maracas.

Behind him, Brienne scribbles in her beloved tactics folder. She looks tired, as she always does when they are playing away games, and Stannis feels that warm rush as he peers at her in the rear view mirror. It seems they are friends. He has never been friends with a woman before, and it feels pleasant. Safe. They drink together, talk with Davos, are courteous and polite; a little knot of sanity in the wild meadowed grasslands of  _ The Mayflower _ . To Brienne he opens up, just a little, and she, in turn, does the same. He once ventured that they have a very Jane Austen sort of relationship, and she chuckled, told him that they are far too sensible to be anyone apart from Colonel Brandon and Elinor Dashwood.

Only she and Davos know of Stannis’ love for classic romantic literature. Thankfully.

“ _ Oh Stanny boy _ ,” someone - definitely Blackwater, with that surprisingly good tenor - sings.

“No.”

Davos’ hand finds his knee, rubbing gently. He is Captain Wentworth. Gallant, sensitive, uniformed Captain Wentworth.

 

“ _ Oh Stanny boy, the hype, the hype’s appalling*, _

_ We are but men, a fucking rugby side! _

_ All summer long we drink and shag our women _ ,” and here someone gently points out they need to change that lyric as there are same gender couples on the team, so perhaps they should look at something more inclusive?

 

“Shut up, you big gay. We’ll rewrite when we’re pissed, like always.” 

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, blushing bright. “Do you think we should stop using gay pejoratively?” Podrick nods, but they are yelled over by others, wanting Bronn to sing onward.

 

“Where was I?  _ All summer long we drink and shag our women, _

_ When autumn comes, by Stanny’s laws abide. _ ”

 

They all join in, apart from Brienne who is concentrating far too hard to do anything but draw in red ink over all of her meticulously planned plans. Lannister watches her. He’s never stopped, for the last fifteen minutes. He mouths the words though.

 

“ _ We are the boys, the boys from in the Crownlands, _

_ In black and red, we play the fucking game. _

_ When summer’s gone and autumn brings us rugby, _

_ Remember us, we conquered, saw and came! _ ”

 

They launch into the more raucous verses, the more personal ones. Stannis, to be honest, gets off lightly. At least the mockery is democratic, he reflects, as they yell about Theon’s cock falling off due to STDs, Clegane’s unfortunate scarring, Jon Snow being prettier than all their girlfriends and wives put together, and Mormont’s bear shagging ways.

 

* * *

 

“Oh no,”

“What’s up?”

“Outside. Waiting for us.”

“Oh. Oh no.”

“What’s up, you two?”

“Look out the window, Theon.”

“Shit. Like shit, man!"

“Pass it forward so Sam knows!”

“Tarly!”

“And so if second breakfast as a concept is rooted in the Essosian tradition, like elevenses - sorry, Pod, one sec. Yes, Theon?”

“Stark alert.”

“Oh. No.”

“Why’s Mum and Dad there? And your Mum and Dad?”

“How can Rhaegar get away with wearing a short sleeved shirt in this weather? It’s not like spring has sprung.

“Dragon blood.”

“Explains why your nipples are never erect in the cold, Jonny boy.”

“...when have you looked at my nipples?”

“When haven’t I looked at your nipples, baby?”

“Fuck off, you prat!”

“Snow. Your mum is hot.”

“I’d do Cat, myself. MILFy as fuck.”

“Stop talking about our mums like that!”

“Rhaegar’d fuck your shit up, Bronn.”

“We’d all go gay for a Targ.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Just because you’ve got a female one doesn’t mean you wouldn’t, horse-boy.”

“Please do not bring Daenerys into this?”

“I can bring my girlfriend into this if I want, Mormont. Unlike you. Mine. Not yours.”

“She deserves far better than you, Drogo. You are unworthy of the ground upon which she walks.”

“Guys, the answer is simple. Threesome the shit out of it, find out which one of you tops, and go for it.”

“Bronn!”

“Tyrion asks if you do, film it on your phone. Varys’ll pay a shitload.”

“...how much?”

“I am not having a threesome with you and Daenerys! She is far too perfect to want two large men thrusting at her in such a manner. She is delicate, and wonderful, and should never be sullied in such a disgusting fashion.”

“...I’d totally have two men thrusting at me in such a manner.”

“You don’t count. You’re bi for pay, Blackwater.”

“What can I say? I’m fucking gorgeous, me.”

 

* * *

 

The northerners get ambushed by various family members when they come to play at Winterfell. One by one they slink over to relatives, some vaguely embarrassed, others pleased to see people they love.

Lyanna pats Jon’s shoulder, before Rhaegar engulfs his son in a huge silvery-haired hug, whirling him around fondly, planting kisses across his forehead. Targaryen public displays of affection are the reason Jon ended up being born in the first place. His father has no sense of shame or decorum, but since he is both ridiculously attractive and thoroughly decent, no one seems to care. Jon was once told by a very drunk Theon that he polled everyone in the pub, and Rhaegar Targaryen was up there with Jaime Lannister and Arthur Dayne on the list of most shaggable rugby heroes of the last two decades.

“How’s my little wolfling?” he asks, lovingly, tucking Jon’s unruly curls back from his face. “You look thin, don’t they feed you in university?” Rhaegar is the sort of parent who is never happy unless he can stuff everyone in a fifty metre radius with delicious food. He makes the best chocolate souffles. His chocolate souffles make Hot Pie pink and bothered and upset. Jealous.

“I’m fine, Dad,” he promises, before being hugged once more. Lyanna lurks, catches her son’s gaze, grins, rolls her eyes. She and Jon are far more alike than Jon and Rhaegar. Squirming free for a whole three seconds before his father re-engulfs him, he shakes his mother’s hand, calloused from years of dog-walking and dire wolf conservation, before they bump fists.

Lyanna is a bro, after all. She finds fist bumping amusing.

She is totally the butch one. Dad is all long hair, perfect grooming, and gorgeously elvish as Sam says, because if there is one person apart from Rosie Cotton that his best friend has a slight thing for, it is Elrond Half-Elven. Elegant. Charismatic. Mum is battered boots and jeans, sensible waxed jackets, dogs up to the eyeballs. Horses. Bitten nails. Capable. The sort that goes She-Wolf when her little pack of Jon and Rhaegar are threatened.

Just like Ygritte does. His beloved girlfriend goes mad if anyone tries to hurt Jon, even though he can stand up for himself - most of the time. Something about doe-eyes and his pretty face makes women want to protect him. He goes with it. It’s fine. All good. He’s comfortable enough in his sexuality to be fine with his girlfriend and mother being more masculine than himself.

He quite likes being the pretty one with the nice hair. Like Ygritte enjoys being the tough one with the nice hair. They share product, and both understanding the need for no rough drying, no sulphate shampoo, careful curl management, the marvel that is apple cider vinegar. He and Ygritte bend gender in their cheerfully don’t give a stuff what anyone else thinks about it manner. They share clothes.

“How’re the pets?”

“We’ve got more. I’ll introduce you.”

His parents raise baby ducklings in their farmhouse kitchen, under heat lamps, and Rhaegar breeds the finest bearded dragons in the Seven Kingdoms, although Aunt Dany disputes that; she and Dad have arguments over conformation and scale patterns via Facebook, and highly technical flame wars in High Valyrian. Jon is aware, and not so secretly thrilled, that his family as mad as a bag of frogs. Geckos. Some sort of lizard more than amphibian. It makes having them in his life even more special.

Robb good-naturedly allows Catelyn to sob on his shoulder, rubbing her back. She always cries. She is, by dint of everything, a crier. Good thing? Sob. Bad thing? Wailing, beating of breast. Only for five minutes or so, and then she is back to her sensible cool-headed self, but it still happens. She moves onto Sam, squeezing him up into her arms, then Pod, who seems surprised but goes with it, before she stops at Theon, says something, glares, and turns back to fussing Robb.

Theon. Poor sod. He might be a dickhead, but he’s their dickhead. And Jon? Jon knows exactly what it is like to be cold-shouldered by Aunt Cat.

“Dad?” He is still being embraced. It’s nice.

“Sweetling?”

“Can you hug Theon?”

“Which one is Theon?” Dad never remembers who’s who, and he doesn’t question why there should be physical contact. Rhaegar Targaryen does whatever Jon asks, to make up for seventeen years of not being in his son’s life. Luckily for the man his son is honourable enough to  never take advantage.

“Thin lad, hipster, the one near Ned.”

Disentangling himself, Rhaegar strides over, silver and tall and the sort of Dad that makes people jealous, spins Theon around, and wraps him up into a Patented Dragon Hug. For a moment it seems as if Greyjoy wants to flee, but, quietly, he gives in, slumps into the Best Cuddle Ever. Such is the power of the Targaryen snuggle. No one can resist when Rhaegar has them in his arms. Which, again, explains Jon.

At least Theon doesn’t try and grope. For once.

“My sister-in-law is a bitch,” Lyanna says. “Fucking cow.” She rests her elbow on her son’s shoulder. They are eerily similar, right down to the grey eyes and serious sullen expression that they have both been told by a variety of sources is attractive. Jon is more pointed about the chin and cheekbones, and Lyanna has a slightly smaller nose, but apart from that they are created from the same blueprint.

No love lost between the women, especially when Mum found out about Aunt Cat’s treatment of her Jon over the seventeen years he lived in the Stark household. Seventeen years, and then Lyanna came home.

He’s never quite got round to asking where she was during that time. In his head Mum was an international spy, or riding with the Dothraki, or saving the world one ecosystem at a time.

“Maybe I’ll adopt him? He’s cute, like a little lost puppy.” Fondness suffuses.

“You’ve got twelve direwolves and a pack of dogs to look after. Ducks. Dad’s lizards. The horse. How’s the horse? He’s got a family, anyway. Theon, not the horse. Where’ll you keep him, everywhere’s stuffed with animals? And he’s a dickhead.”

“Horses. Balerion needed mares apparently, so we’re now breeding Fell ponies. Dad’s called them Meraxes and Vhagar. Didn’t I text you and send photos? We can go riding now, all together. Three heads of the Dragon.” Her expression oscillates between resignation and slightly grumpy amusement. Another of those special mother-son looks that only he and Lyanna understand.

“Dad just wanted to be Targ, didn’t he?”

“Always. No wonder I never married the stupid bugger.” Her fondness for Rhaegar is always there, undying and endless, even when Lyanna couldn’t even be on the same continent as her lover. Even when Rhaegar brings home every stray animal in a fifty mile radius. Seventeen years. “Anyway, Theon’s family is a shit family. Bloody Greyjoys. I punched Euron in the face once, felt brilliant. Handsy little bastard.”

“Handsy is a family trait, and they are a shit family,” he agrees. “His sister is nice, you’d love her. She makes Ygritte look soft.”   
  


* * *

 

“Cousin.”

He looks around, confused, then remembers to look down.

A small, slightly plump, gimlet-eyed girl - she has to be, what, fourteen now? Sixteen? - straight dark eyebrows, stern expression upon her pale face, arms across her chest, all in black like a Crow.

“What are you doing here?”

“A Mormont supports her men.”

He fidgets, scratches his neck, sighs, then holds a hand out for her to shake. She takes it, her grip strong and firm and confident. She reminds him, vaguely, of a more martial Wednesday Addams. More terrifying. She has Jeor’s expression, the one he wore when he told Jorah to fuck the fuck off you fucker, and never fucking come back to fucking Bear Island. Fucker. Cold and tough and entirely merciless. Which, obviously, is most disconcerting in someone who is nowhere near technically an adult.

“Is your Mother ar-?”

“No. I am here to greet you. She does not know, but I make the decisions for House Mormont upon the mainland.”

Lyanna has always been an odd child. Even more strange than her namesake, Lyanna Stark. Perhaps it is something to do with the name? More likely something in the northern water.

“You will take me for dinner. I have made reservations. We must discuss House Mormont and our position in the North.”

Jorah never knows what to say to her. No one ever knows what to say to her. She is a singular young woman.

“Are you still in school at Winterfell?” There are no educational establishments that cater for Lyanna’s strain of mad genius upon Bear Isle.

“Yes. Obviously. Otherwise I would not be here.”

This is going to be a difficult evening.

 

* * *

 

No. This is unprecedented.

Roose Bolton, black-clad and elegantly lean, awaits. No one dares stand next to him, because they are all fucking sane; they could be shivved or poisoned at any moment, so the other families give the man a wide berth. Ramsay feels those strange pale eyes so very like his own flaying him the moment he steps from the minibus, as he crunches moodily across the gravel towards Father, hands in pockets, wishing he were somewhere else.

“Ramsay!” Walda squeals. She is wearing a pink padded coat, and is larger than ever as her pregnancy swells her fat body. Being with child suits her, gives her a healthy brightness that bring colour to her cheeks and sparkle to her eyes; marked contrast to Roose’s monochrome. Not that Ramsay gives a shit, obviously. “We didn’t know what time you were coming, so I asked Roosey if we could drive over a little early, just to make sure. You look so well!” Her hug is soft, and cloying, and she smells of biscuits.

Roosey? His father stares straight ahead, as if unsullied by the pet name, but he is definitely irked. Embarrassed. Ramsay stores the nickname in his databanks, to be brought out as ammunition at a later date.

“Mrs Bolton. How lovely to see you again.”

“Beric!” Group hug. Ramsay feels his shortness keenly, squashed between Walda and Dondarrion. Even his stepmother is taller than him - must be in heels - but a sneaky glance shows she wears pink hiking boots. Where the fuck can someone buy pink hiking boots?

“Ramsay,” whispers his father, the words cutting through being smothered by polyester and the sensible aran jumper Beric sports. 

“Father.” Muffled.

“Mr. Bolton, an honour as always.”

He manages to peer around the frightening shelf of Walda’s bosom, as Roose and Beric size each other up. Father’s eyes trail across the tattoos on the man’s hand, the wide shoulders, alighting upon the fading bruising around the base of his boyfriend’s? Lover’s? Fucktoy’s? throat. Last time they met, military colours, suits, and respectability was involved. Not jeans, obvious body art, and a handknit sweater made by Beric’s mum years before.

Sometimes, when he is feeling incredibly sadistic, Ramsay hides that jersey. He refuses to compete against knitwear for Beric’s affection.

“Mr. Dondarrion. I see that you have my son firmly in control.” Edged, and razor-keened, and mocking. His gaze bores into the pretty marks that adorn Beric’s neck, and Ramsay hates his father in the way only a child can hate a parent. Bastard.

Roose knows. Of course Roose has always known, because it is difficult not to when your son runs up thousands of dragons on a credit card attached to hard core fetish porn websites. Especially when the therapist that Father employs probably reports everything straight back to the Dreadfort. She’s the type to break the Hippocratic oath to curry favour with the wealthy and powerful. But Roose knows, he can see. Obvious. Right in front of him, painted in faded yellow and purple.

“Nothing to control, sir. Ramsay is a credit to you and your family.” Beric might be subby as fuck when it comes to Ramsay, but with other people, ones he isn’t close to because the Bros don’t count, he is calm and in control of himself and the situation. He’ll do what Clegane and Giantsbane tell him with good grace, because they are his associates, and what those in authority request, such as the Tarth woman and Stannis Baratheon. For everyone else, he is friendly and no pushover whatsoever. Beric is a contradiction, and Ramsay is slowly coming to appreciate that his lover/boyfriend/fucktoy - they have to talk about what they refer to each other as, really - only totally submits to him.  A bit dizzying, and a lot really frigging sexy, and he can deal with that. “I am proud to call him my friend.”

Ramsay could melt - and if he wasn’t Ramsay Bolton - he would. No one’s ever stood up for him before, not like Beric does. However, being trapped between a happily chattering Walda, who is explaining everything he doesn’t need to know about mucus plugs, childbirth, and perineal tearing, and Beric, who has a hand lightly caressing the small of his back, means he is solidly upright and non-melty as befits a son of the Dreadfort.

Best thing, anyway. People shouldn’t realise he has feelings. Feelings are for the weak, the foolish.

Beric smiles in that zen manner of his, not breaking eye contact with Roose, and it feels like they are giving the finger to his father. No. Wrong. Beric is, in fact, going all alpha bitch, telling Lord Bolton who Ramsay belongs to.

Right.

Okay.

How does that even work? Ramsay dominates Beric, and Roose dominates him - not like that, not Targy here - but if Beric overrides Roose, and the mental image that conjures is terrifying, where does that leave Ramsay? Who dominates who? Who has the power? But Beric submits utterly to Ramsay, and-

Confused. Processing not happening.

He squints, focusses, expects to see distaste upon Roose’s pale, smooth face, but instead?

Respect. At Beric.

The fuck? Everything turns even messier, like a big yarn ball that has been thoroughly clawed by the D/s Kitty. Everything tangles, things are all over the place, and Ramsay isn’t sure what the hell is happening, but he finds he doesn’t mind it, in a non-sexual way. Beric doms Dad - ugh - who doms Ramsay - not like that, not Targaryen shit, mental images etc. - who doms Beric.

Just.

Fuck? Circular. Everything is circular.

“Come to dinner later,” Walda urges, not picking up on anything whatsoever. “I’ll cook, I’ll make your favourite things, Ramsay?” She sounds so desperate to please.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Bolton,” Beric interjects, smooth as obsidian and with a clever flicker of regret, charming fucker that he is, “we have to dine with the rest of the team. Perhaps another time? Your cooking is something that Ramsay has told me of, and I’d not miss it for the world.”

Smooth lying bastard. Ramsay grins into his stepmother’s coat, viciously.

 

* * *

 

“Evenin’.” She wears white yet again, but leather this time; whiteness from head to foot, with that weird furry thing around her shoulders like an animal pelt. Apparently it is real wolfskin, ethically sourced from hunted creatures beyond the Wall where the Free Folk are allowed to cull for indigenous preservation of the ancient tradition. Even her motorbike is painted white, with white-walled tyres, and the paintwork pearlised into opal-depths. The suspension coils at front and rear have been lowered, because she is that tiny, even though the roadster is still a heavy and sometimes cumbersome beast to ride.

She’s a strong wee thing, is Val.

“Nice bike!” Tor pads over, rubs an appreciative hand over the handlebars, the seat. He had one, once. He loved the wind rushing through his beard. ”

“Want a ride?”

“Wouldn’t mind!”

“Wasn’t talking about the bike, big man.” Leering.

“But-?” Forward is not the word.

“Living in the south’s softened you, lad. Time is that a man like you, big and strong and virile,” and her blue gaze trails lazily over his crotch to the point where Tor almost covers himself up, “would be well up for it.” She grins, and is like a ridiculously feral pixie. 

“I’m a big lad, eh?”

“Those jeans you’re wearin’ suggest it. So did the dancin’.”

“And you’re tiny, yer wee besom.”

“Yer callin’ me a wee besom, yer lang streak o’shite?”

Their accents slip, deeper, more impenetrably north of the Wall, and it feels comforting, and home-warming, and cosy. Her teeth shine white and straight and perfectly shark-like, and Tormund weighs up the options. Balances. Brienne. Val. Two women, different and similar in turn. Val. Brienne

He turns his head, checks.

Brienne is being hugged by the strange crying red-haired Stark woman. When she is released, she doesn’t even look in Tormund’s direction because Davos descends with a Thermos of tea and a bag of sweets, and she thanks him courteously. Nicely. So very nice. She is niceness personified.

Val is lust and home, small and brash and loud. Brienne is kindness and the south, physically impressive and sensible and restrained. They are both goddesses. They are both worship-worthy.

“What’s a shag a’tween Free Folk, eh?” Just a shag. No emotional attachment. He’d not tell Brienne if things sorted themselves out, but they’ve not talked properly since that evening at  _ The Mayflower, _ and he’s not sure if they’re just avoiding each other, or the Gods have been having a laugh. It’s just sex, isn’t it? As Oberyn Martell says, what’s sex if not a really good way to get a daily dose of cardio?

She climbs onto the bike, literally. Val scrambles onto the saddle, stands on the padded leather, and still she’s a tiny bit shorter than him.

“She’s a proper woman, she is, but you need one who wants ye, Giantsbane.” Her lips brush his, and for a moment there is a tiny crack in the forceful facade, a flimmer of soreness that reflects his own when he thinks of his tall blonde goddess. “Come an’ ha’e a guid fuck, Tor, let’s get ‘em fae our heids, aye? Nae more Mance, or Brienne. Let’s gae an’ fuck or brains oot an’ get some peace fae a wee while?”

Someone wolf whistles as she ends up with her legs around his waist, all slidey and leathery as his hands cup her arse, tongue in his mouth, and she kisses him as if Tormund tastes of the best whisky south of the Wall.

Tormund has his face snogged off by Val, the Human Leech, and he finds that yes, with her hands in his hair and her thighs tight around his body, he doesn’t think of Brienne.

It is a welcome respite.

 

* * *

 

“You were sharing with Giantsbane,” Stannis says, a steely amusement tainting his words, “but I swapped him with Martell.”

“Only one of us would have survived, Stanny. Though he was practically screwing that Wildling biker woman over her Triumph out there, so perhaps he’d have brought her back for round two, and I’d have ended up trying to kill myself with my pillow as not to have to listen to his inhuman grunting?”

“Don’t call me Stanny.”

Jaime grins, even if he has a headache behind his left eyeball and tension wrecks his neck and shoulders. Seven hours of trying not to stare too much at Brienne. Seven hours of avoiding watching her writing, and planning, and trying not to pounce, so as to suck on her inky fingertips. She shouldn’t be allowed to write. Her hands should be otherwise occupied.

“Tyrion and Varys are flying up tomorrow. Hot Pie and Shae are manning the pub.”

“Do you think Varys and my little brother are shagging?” Idly, testing the bed. It is firm enough, tending towards the slightly hard. A bit like him when Brienne is around.

“Pardon?” Stannis’ shocked explosion is worth every single flying bit of spit.

“Shae’s having hormone-y thoughts, and I’m dealing with them. She’s worried they’re shagging.”

“Why is Tyrion not dealing with his partner’s mood-swings?”

“Because he’s drinking with Varys most of the time, so someone has to pick up the little shit’s pieces, don’t they? And you think I’m an alcoholic? Seven, Tyrion’s as bad! Hot Pie’s helping sort everything out, so now I have Shae, who is pregnantly convinced she’s being cheated on, and Hot Pie, who’s all for the Sisterhood and therefore thinks Tyrion is being a bastard, which he is, even though he isn’t cheating. It’s exhausting. Hang on? Why am I telling you this? You don’t even like me.” He flops back onto the coverlet with a groan, closing his eyes. A whisky’d go down perfectly, with some painkillers, and then a long sleep in which he can dream of having gallons of sex with Brienne, and then tomorrow, they shall slay the Wolves of Winterfell.

Who are coached by Rhaegar. No wonder they have a poncy name.

Rhaegar, who strode over as if he owns the damned North, and hugged Jaime to within an inch of his sanity.

It was a lovely hug. Targaryen always smells really good.

“I do not dislike you, Lannister.” Stannis, awkward, stands at the side of the bed. “I find you frustrating, childish, arrogant, and you act like a five year old child when you do not receive what you think you deserve, but I do not dislike you.”

“Aww, Stanny, I’m touched.”

“Do not push it.” Sharply. “You are on a knife-edge, and have been all season. If it wasn’t for how well you and Miss Tarth coach the team together, I would have you permanently excluded from all rugby-related events. Your sobriety helps, of course. I grudgingly admit I am proud of you for that.”

“You sound like Tywin. Albeit he doesn’t encourage, he threatens.”

“I am also aware of your regard for Brienne.”

Jaime shrugs. “Isn’t everyone?”

“She is the most honourable of women, and I count her as a friend - I have very few who I call such. I, too, am an honourable person. A man who defends those who he regards as good and true. If you hurt that woman, Lannister, you will find yourself removed from this team. You will find yourself blackballed by every other team in the Crownlands. Not even Rhaegar Targaryen will take you as a coach. You will be finished, I promise, I swear, if you hurt that fine woman. Your family will shun you. Your friends will turn their backs. Your enemies will circle, scenting the blood of your doom. Everywhere you turn, the gates will close, the boiling oil will fall, the arrows will pierce. Do you understand?”

“Holy shit, you’re giving me the Dad Talk,” he breathes, as Stannis, blazing and righteous like the manliest Joan of Arc in existence, glares, blue-eyed and thunderous. “The last time I saw you this determined about anything was when you pushed Bobby to get a prenup with Cersei.”

“Remember what happened with that, Lannister, and then multiply. I am fond of my brother only because we share blood. I am fond of Brienne because I like her as a person. If you play with her, hurt her, tease her, then I will destroy you.”

“Bloody hell, Stannis! I don’t want to hurt her. I love the daft wench,” he snaps.

Because he does.

Fuck. He loves Brienne.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. At least there are no awkward erections. Indeed, the entirety of him seems to cringe at the fact that he has told Stannis, who has the emotional range of a garden hose, that he’s in love with Brienne.

Stannis watches him, eyes hard and narrowed, jaw working, before he nods, turns on his heel, exits the room smartly. Brushes past Oberyn, who leans against the door frame, artfully tousled, fingers flying over the screen of his smartphone. He hasn’t stopped texting since they left King’s Landing.

Jaime weighs it up in his head, realises that the metaphorical cat, now out of the bag, will never be allowed to crawl back into the dark confines where no one will see it, and makes a decision.

“Oberyn. You know about women.”

“You noticed?” Archly. “Yes. I know the wondrous beauty of the opposite sex.”

“How do you get one to go out with you, especially if you’ve been a bastard to them, and they might punch you in the face?”

Something about the Dornishman gleams as he pads over, deposits his elegant leather suitcase by his own bed, then climbs onto Jaime’s.

“Surely you have asked someone out before?”

This will be interesting, but. Shit. Needs to be done. Because he loves Brienne, and that means he needs to actually be in a relationship with her, and if bloody Martell can help, because no one else has the range of knowledge about sex and romance that he does, then perhaps-?

Also, since Oberyn is the least shockable person in the vicinity, who better than to admit certain truths to?

“I’ve been in one relationship, it ended when I got Gregor-ed. We were together from when we were sixteen, and-”

“Oh. Cersei. She does not count.” An elegant wave of his hands, unflappable to the end.

“How the hell did you know?!” Shit. Shit! Shitshitshitshit indeed.

Oberyn shifts, bedclothes ruffle, and he lays down with far more decorum than Jaime’s flopping fish collapse. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the stare at the ceiling. Cracks in the plaster. Weird damp marks. One of them looks like a flaccid penis. This is the nearest he’s ever been to being in bed with someone apart from his sister. And it has to be Oberyn Martell. Who is handsome, yes, but seriously not Jaime’s type. Not blonde enough, and lacking the squishy bits he likes. 

They reached an understanding the second time the Dornishman tried to shag him; manly touching fine, nothing below the belt and above mid thigh, smack on the arse acceptable during a rugby situation as it builds character, hugs always appreciated when appropriate, no kissing on the mouth, massages welcome.

“It is obvious. You mentioned no woman apart from her. You were present at the births of the children, more proud papa than Uncle Jaime. Many have thrown themselves, including me,” and faint amusement curls the man’s lips, and if Jaime did go both ways he’d be tempted, but he is the type to have a monogamous relationship rather than just a casual hook-up. He’s boringly chivalric in that regard. “But you turned us all away. You acted as if you were married, but there was no woman. No woman we met. No woman you spoke of in such terms, but Cersei. Also there are those who love you who sometimes need to talk to another to, straighten their heads.”

Bloody Tyrion!

“I’ll murder the little shit.” Dear little brother must die.

“Ah, not Tyrion. Varys. Gin is most useful when I wish to know things. The many things I know of Varys’ past. Most illuminating.”

“I really don’t need to know, Obi.” He doesn’t want to know, but he does, but not. Horror versus endless nosyness, and they wage war in his head. It is quite warming to know that Varys loves him. No wonder the man interferes constantly in Jaime’s very existence. He annoys people he likes. He is only charming to the people he wants to have murdered by whatever governmental department he machinates in.

“Now, you are in love with the glorious Brienne. I overheard you telling Stannis. Such a delicious man when he is vexed, is he not?” Oberyn writhes like an incubus, turns, rests his cheek on Jaime’s shoulder. “Now we shall discuss how fair maiden shall win honourable knight. Perhaps a well-presented apology to begin with, yes?” He pauses, nudges Jaime with his impressively Dornish aquiline nose. “You do know what you are to apologise for?”

Jaime counts it off on his prosthetic fingers. “Being a bastard, calling her ugly, trying to play the pity card, and coming across an all round annoying Lannister? The usual things.”

“Good boy. Perhaps for calling her a wench?”

“That’s a term of endearment. She is my wench.”

“Ah, my Kingslayer. Only you would choose such a name as a sweet nothing.”

“Why do they call you the Red Viper?” He rests his cheekbone against the top of Martell’s dark head.

Oberyn glitters, amused. “Not me. Just certain parts of me. That which brings the little death to so many.  _ La petite mort sans merci _ .”

“...Bloody hell.”

“What can I say, Jaime? It is a gift that I must give to the world.”

It is only later, after cuddle time is over, they’ve had dinner, and everyone else apart from Jaime and Edd have been at the booze - Tollett never drinks before a game because he’s sure he’ll fall over and break himself, or be involved in amusing alcohol-related shenanigans involving students, Bronn, and an industrial sized roll of clingfilm so likes to stay alert - and all are a-bed that he realises that Oberyn framed Jaime as the Maiden Fair.

Which, to be honest, given the silky-soft perfection of his hair, makes perfect sense.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * to the tune of _Danny Boy_ , because why not?


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

 

 

Half time, and Brienne nurses a slight but niggling groin strain. Lannister offers commiserations but seems distracted when she explains what part of her anatomy is injured; Jaime is the sort who has a solid and well-contained groin area that never falters. Thinking upon that forces her to retreat into those embarrassing fan fiction fantasies of hers for a long moment, where she and Jaime’s lower half become well-acquainted, before driving them from her brain as she forgets to move carefully and pain spikes. 

No. No thinking of Jaime in bed. Wrong. Bad. That is a done deal; she told him no because he is insufferable, she stopped that when she refused to get aboard that particular train to oblivion - when she turned him down for being a self-absorbed and selfish bastard.

He is probably spectacular at sex. He seems the type to put his all into everything he does.

Stop that.

She grits her teeth, stretches through the dull ache, thinks of spraying herself with Deep Heat but is nervous about having something burning next to places where burning is never welcome. The experience of having done so aged fifteen is still a stark red painful twist of soft tissue and sobbing as she stood under a freezing cold shower until hypothermia threatened.

“You look sore.” Oberyn hands her his water bottle, and she drinks, not particularly caring about saliva and cross-contamination. They are friends, after all. Martell is a very good person to have around. He jokes, and wheedles, and those massages that send her into a great puddle of melted Tarth really do help her large frame to recover. She does him back, which sounds far more involved than it actually is. Not that she’ll let him near her groin, but he can give pointers if required.

“Just a tweak.”

“You must be careful. You are our secret weapon.” He kisses her cheek, and how the man still smells lovely after forty minutes of sweaty mud-covered rugby madness, she never knows. Oberyn is just naturally fragrant, like Jaime. “Perhaps I can strap it for you?”

“You’re incorrigible.” Nudging.

“Ah, if I do not, then Thoros must, or Lannister. Shall I ask our sweet Jaime to-?”

“No!” Oh Gods, no!  Accursed blushes climb from her collarbone to her jawline, sneaking into her ears and making them blaze. For some reason her reaction makes Oberyn grin sharkish, wide and gleaming.

The thought of Jaime Lannister fiddling around down there, or at least very near certain down there parts where no Lannister needs to venture, sends her lightheaded. They have maintained a certain politeness, and to be frank her co-coach has tended towards the less acerbic and more actual human being since the engagement party. He sat with her on the bus, held her pencil case that is shaped like a red panda on his enviably long and muscular thighs. Passed the Red Pen of Doom when she required, like a nurse helping a Doctor of Rugby. He watched her, which was disconcertingly attentive, but Brienne lost herself in planning, and tactics, and the seven hours from King’s Landing to Winterfell passed swiftly. Even with Stannis’ frankly pedestrian driving and the mass singing. Even with Drogo and Jorah bitching endlessly. Even with Sam and Pod’s _ Lord of the Rings _ obsession behind her for the entire journey.

They’ve not invented a verse about Brienne yet. She’s somewhat proud of that, but also feeling a little left out. Jaime’s goes on about him having to masturbate with his left hand, so it’s like he’s having a hand-job from a stranger.

“If I need it, I can do myself.”

Oberyn’s eyes gleam.

“You are a pervert.”

“Unashamedly, my Tarth. Also, Tormund is looking for you. He seems most desperate to speak with you. Shall I put him off?”

What would Brienne do without Oberyn, who acts as her PA, runs interference, gives fantastic back rubs, saves her from sticky situations? Yes, he has that bloody YouTube channel and Tormund’s bread eating reached a million hits the previous weekend, and he is a colossal flirt, but Oberyn is a really good man. Handsome. Sometimes she thinks about him and Willas, and has to go and write for half an hour to calm down. In her head canon they live in an apartment complex with Davos and Stannis, and there are shenanigans, amusing misunderstandings, and lots of kissing. Baking. For some reason Davos bakes and shares tips with Willas, who is charmingly hopeless but desperate to impress Oberyn - perhaps they are just roommates for the moment and they are in love with each other but Oberyn thinks Willas isn’t interested and Willas thinks Oberyn just wants sex and he himself isn’t the sort of man to sleep with another unless properly dating so wishes to woo Martell with cake - and Stannis thinks Seaworth and Tyrell are having an affair, so goes and talks to Oberyn, and part of her wonders about a foursome, but realises that Stannis would gut anyone who tries to touch Davos, and-

“No. I should talk to him. We’ve been avoiding each other since, well. Since it all happened.”

“He has been making love with a Wildling.”

“She’s very,” and Brienne searches for the diplomatic word. “Short.” Val is terrifying. She gave Brienne the most deadly stare imaginable at the engagement party, just before she snogged Tormund’s face off.

“Tiny. Most fierce. Willas says she is like Beyonce.”

“Willas is strange sometimes. I blame you.”

“I corrupt absolutely.” He looks very fond. “He is a beautiful boy. Such passion and soul. Such a fascinating innocence in which he sees the world. Such a backside I never saw until I witnessed his.”

“You’re being quite soppy,” she points out, and the man laughs, head back, showing perfect white teeth.

“Perhaps I have met the one who will tame the Viper? Or at least participate in my adventures through the wonders of existence? The sweet angel sidekick to my debauched devilry?”

Now she wants to write a  _ Good Omens* _ fic starring Oberyn and Willas as Crowley and Aziraphale. Six thousand years of not kissing would make the kissing between the demon and the angel very explosive indeed.

Dammit.

 

* * *

 

“She will talk, Giantsbane.” Oberyn is about six inches shorter than him, but no less intimidating. There are those who have got on the wrong side of Martell, and they still bear the scars. Behind the flirtatious geniality, he is a man not to cross. Rumour says he is a master poisoner, and has a team of scantily-clad ninja women at his beck and call, or his daughters are all trained in martial arts and weapon skills and are basically the standing Dornish army. Others say he shags people to death, strangles them with his toned thighs like that Bond girl villain that Tor has a thing for. The Onatopp woman.

Woah. It’s weird how much Ned Stark looks like Alec Trevelyan, but older and a bit more fluffy about the middle.

_ Goldeneye  _ is the best of the film series, but don’t tell Sandor because he’s all about Sean Connery and  _ Goldfinger _ , and they spend many hours playing the computer game on the N64 that he and the Bros have. Between them, they have all the original SEGA systems, most of the Nintendo ones, and even a battered but stubbornly working Sinclair Spectrum +2. Sandor isn’t allowed to play on that. He keeps destroying the keyboard playing  _ Daley Thompson’s Decathlon  _ and screaming insults about Lorathi steroid-driven fucking cuntbastards who fucking fuck the fucking game the fuck up. Fuckers.**

“Hey! I just want to talk to her. Y’know. About things.”

A finger jabs his left nipple. “I am protective of our Lady Tarth. I will hurt you, my Giant, if you upset her.”

“I just want to say I’m sorry about everything! Pleasedon’tkillme.”

Beric and Sandor lurk like protection, Ramsay the bull terrier chewing contentedly at the former’s fingers like a puppy at a squeaky rubber toy. His Bros have his back. Even Bolton does, these days, since if a Bro hurts, all Bros hurt, and if someone makes Dondarrion upset, then they have all five foot seven of psycho to deal with. He and Clegane hate the weird little shit, but he’s proving a useful addition to the Bros. A sort of hanger-on, like Sansa. Only not pretty, smaller tits, and far worse at conversation.

Sansa has started bro-fisting, very solemnly, like it is all an ancient ritual of brotherhood. It’s cute as shit. Sandor has to obviously bite back his amusement to maintain his industrial metal hard man bastardness.

Tor likes Sansa. She bakes things, brings them over, and then orders the boys to eat everything. Who are they to go against such orders when brownies and biscuits are lying about looking all tasty and good? She’s even taken to asking him for Free Folk recipes, and has discovered they both have a passion for citrus-based cake.

“I shall desist. Unless you hurt my Brienne. Then you shall bleed, Tormund. You shall be in pain. You shall deal not only with me. You shall have an irate and deliciously angry Stannis to soothe. Do you wish for a two-pronged approach? The pincer movement of the protective?”

Oh Gods. All of the Gods, even the poncy southron ones. Alone, sure, he can deal with Stannis or Oberyn. He’s nails. He’s Free Folk. Southerners are just big girls with posh language. Together, in burning righteous fury, because justice and vengeance are the same slightly warped coin, he’s screwed. 

“I won’t. I just want to see if she’s okay. She’s still a goddess, and I don’t know why she doesn’t understand.”

“You fuckin’ do,” rumbles Clegane, who has magically conjured a bottle of lager from somewhere. Tormund sighs, holds a hand out, and Beric, bless his bro-ness, sticks a drink in his hand. “Fuck’s sake, you idiot cunt motherfucking twatface.”

“So good with words, Sandor.” Martell smiles, or at least shows his teeth.

“Go and talk, Tor, and don’t be a dick.” Beric claps him on the shoulder with his free hand. “You’ve got about five minutes before we’re due back on the pitch.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

“Hello Tormund.” He has a bottle of beer in his hand, and a crooked softness of a smile gracing his handsomely rugged face. Brienne winces as the injury nags, shifts on the hard wooden bench. She’s escaped to the women’s changing rooms to clear her head, and it is cool and peaceful. Serene. Not like the men’s, where she usually ends up at half-time, which is muddy and chaotic and full of very large very sweaty men yelling at each other.

“You okay?” He hovers for a moment, before shrugging those massive shoulders, settling next to her. They are both too large for the seating, knees almost under respective chins.

“I’m okay. Are you?” He offers her a swig from the bottle, but Brienne isn’t the sort of person to take onboard booze during a rugby match. Body, temple, all of that.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being weird.” Straight to the point, just like a Wildling. Tormund never holds back, after all. He is a force of nature, who does what he feels is right in the moment. It makes him an excellent rugby player. “Just you are amazing, Bri. You’re everythin’ a man like me could ever want, and I didn’t think of your feelings when I said about worshipping you. Clegane explained about stuff, about me projecting onto you. Said it was all a bit much. Overwhelming.”

He looks like a kicked puppy, inasmuch as his kitteny blue-green eyes are sad and apologetic, and of course she can’t stop herself from rubbing her hand over his mud-spattered forearm. Tormund is a decent man. He’s funny, and bubbly. He’s the life and soul of everything, and he really is a good soul. He has endless  hidden depths in which you could drown an entire rugby team. Who else can she talk about medieval weaponry, tactical battles during the One Hundred Years War, or the use of the longbow by the Tyrell westerners during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries? Handsome, in his particular wild way, with that glorious beard and lightning grin. An idealist. A warrior. A good man.

“I’m sorry too, Tor. I really am. I’m not made to be worshipped. I’m not a goddess. I’m just me, and I’ve worked a long time to be mostly happy with who I am. I couldn’t go through disappointing you, and making me feel inadequate, because of not living up to who you need me to be. A time ago, I’d have said yes, and in the end we’d have been really unhappy. You deserve someone who appreciates everything, all the passion you have, who wants to be on that pedestal you’ve got, who doesn’t resent it. Who doesn’t take it for granted, and loves you back just as much.” She pauses, a beat of her heart which makes her feel slightly less awful about this. “Val seems...nice?”

He grins. “She’s a mad besom. But I mean it. You don’t see it, woman, but I do. You’re special, even if I might be goin’ over the top with it all. You’re amazing.”

“So’re you.” She means it. She means it so very much that it physically hurts. Tormund Giantsbane is one of the most genuine men she has ever known. Heart on sleeve genuine, which makes him have a vulnerability that others don’t see. He doesn’t quite understand about what he needs in life, which is someone that wants him completely, and utterly, and with his good intentions in their heart. Someone who likes being his goddess, who doesn’t exploit it or recoil from that Free Folk passion that burns in his veins. Someone who can tell him he’s being a prat. Someone more vital and open than herself. Someone with less baggage, or at least can handle it without the flicker of introvert that stalks her own soul.

Tormund needs a woman who gets him, who knows what he means. Who gets him, and appreciates his peculiarities. Like Brienne needs someone who gets her, not just has a fantasy image projecting onto her outside.

Their fingers lock together, squeezing. Shoulders bump, companionably.

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

“Now ye can come drinkin’ with the Bros without it being weird,” he says, suddenly, before his laughter echoes across the empty room. “Since you’re an honorary one, what with your front row-ness.”

“I lack a certain male appendage.”

Tormund starts giggling, about strap-ons, and Brienne feels her cheeks flame very hot indeed before she gives in to her own amusement.

 

* * *

 

“Update?” Stannis stalks the sidelines, even as the players take their half time breather. They are losing. Losing to Rhaegar Targaryen and the team in steel and silver. How in the name of the Gods are they losing to Rhaegar Targaryen?

Apart from the Wolves of Winterfell - such a ridiculous, pretentious name, driven by sponsorship deals and ‘cool’ merchandise, of course, and Stannis is a man who could never sell out in such an outrageous manner - being semi-professional, extremely well-coached, and where on earth did they pick up that strange man with the red and white hair who is carving King’s Landing apart? It is tempting to ask his forwards to zone in on this Jaqen and try and destroy the assassin who is both precise and brilliant, Dayne brilliant though far more cunning, but Baratheons operate upon a code of honour that doesn’t mean one has opposing players nobbled.

At least Stannis does. Bobby and Renly would be setting Drogo and Clegane on this H’ghar and reaping the rewards of being uncivilised and lacking fair play. It is not the King’s Landing way.

“Wench has got a groin strain. Bolton’s almost been sent off but is behaving for now. Tollett’s broken his finger again. Usual bruises, Jorah got raked but that was Drogo.” Jaime raises his eyebrows. “Neutering an option?”

“Do not tempt me, Lannister.” He’d do it himself. With kitchen scissors. The one who metes out justice must wield the sword. Or secateurs.

“They’re also substituting Reed in the second half.”

“Gendry did annihilate the boy.”

“Bit tiny to be taking a Gendry to the chest. Think they’ve got a secret weapon, though. Rhaegar is looking even more smug than usual.”

Stannis grumbles, teeth aching. “Another one?”

“Northerners,” Jaime points out, and he is on edge, “are obsessed with rugby. They all play it up here. Nothing else to do around Winterfell apart from shag sheep and fiddle with odd-shaped balls.”

The teams stream back onto the pitch. Brienne limps slightly, but is focussed, Edd strapped to the gunnels and looks as if he expects to get his neck broken. He won’t be able to catch well at all, but his tackling skills are still exemplary.

“You,” hisses a voice, and he and Lannister turn as one to see a small young girl clad in black striding across the sideline towards Drogo. She is pale, and slightly plump in the cheeks, and utterly stern in her body language and expression.

“Kid?” Drogo stops, confused, before she stares up, hands upon her hips.

“You threaten House Mormont. You will stop. Do you wish to meet your doom upon the battlefield? I saw you strike down my man upon the pitch. I saw you claw.”

Stannis and Jaime just stare, though Lannister begins to laugh, shoulders quivering.

“What the hell?” The Dothraki doesn’t seem to know what to do. Neither would Stannis if he were in the given situation. “What you on about, girl?”

“I am no girl.” Her jaw tightens, and Stannis sees a kindred soul in a fourteen year old child. A small, angry young woman, with straight dark eyebrows and the most spectacular what others call ‘resting bitch face.’ Cersei would be in awe of that expression, of how she rakes her dark eyes over Drogo, who is at least two feet taller than her, how she leans in without fear and jabs him in the stomach. “I am Lady Mormont, of Bear Island. You offend my House, my man, and you offend me.”

“You smoking something?”  

“Desist, and you will live. Continue, and I shall bring the vengeance of our House upon you, Horse Lord.”

“Oh no,” Jorah appears from behind them, sighs, presses his hand over his face. Mortification burns. “Oh bloody hells.”

“Who is that?” Stannis wonders if he can adopt her. She would do well with the correct tutelage. She would make an excellent lawyer. 

“Lyanna. My niece. She is special, I suppose you’d call it. Bloody clever, but she’s always been a bit different.” He sighs again, rolls his shoulders, and wades in.

“You have a snarling child, old man. Silence it.”

“Lyanna, can you stop this imm-?”

“I will not be silenced, Uncle. He dishonours you. He smears our name. He destroys his team with his foolishness. If he does not stop-”

Jorah and Drogo look at each other, helplessly and for once as one, as the child dissolves into a rant. She invokes the Bear, and the blood ties of Stark and Mormont. She tells of ancient foes and allies, of the entire Island coming to protect one of their own. The anger of the women of the Isle. The First men. Loyalty to the King in the North whose name is Stark, and she snarls at Jorah, who does not play for the Wolves, and is therefore obviously a traitor. All pour from her lips as her black-eyed expression crucifies Drogo.

“Lyanna, last census there were sixty three men living on Bear Island,” Jorah points out. “Even if you can invoke them, it isn’t as if you have a standing army, is it?

“Each man is worth ten Horse Lords,” she spits. “Every bear has four sets of claws with which to destroy the Men of the Steppes.

“I like her,” Drogo suddenly says. “I like you, Lady of the Bear. You are a worthy adversary. I hear and obey your command. In return your man will stop trying to fuck my girlfriend.”

Lyanna stops, her small hands clenching and unclenching, before the whirlwind of her fury is turned upon her quivering kinsman. “Is this true? Do you desire the man’s woman?”

“I saw her first,” Jorah points out, before swallowing, looking at his boots.

“You shame us, Uncle. You bring shame upon our clan. No wonder Grandfather banished you from the very earth upon which you were bred.”

“Lyanna, you’re, what, fifteen? You don’t understand what it’s like to be in love with someone who consumes your soul. Who you follow to the ends of the earth and promise to protect and cherish and love. Who you would give your life for, and die smiling for she is safe. You’ve not even taken your GCSE exams.”

Another tilt of her head, eyes blazing, and Stannis thinks she is possibly the most marvellous teenager that he has ever met, apart from his daughter, and if he and Shireen were not related, there would be some serious competition between the girls for who is the most wonderful. “I have read works of literature that portray the themes of love, Uncle. I am not unaware of the passion betwixt man and woman. Sometimes between a man and a man, or a woman or a woman, or a human and a creature who is not of human origin such as a vampire, or a centaur. I see laid upon the page the glory of passion, of jealousy, of forbidden love. I am young, yes, but I am of a maturity far beyond my fourteen,” and she glares at Jorah, and Stannis almost applauds, “summers. A true man. A loyal man. A man of honour will not lay with the wife or lover of another. I am shocked and appalled by your conduct.”

“Shall I go and find someone who sells popcorn?” Lannister seems to be vibrating with glee. “This is bloody brilliant.”

“M’sorry,” Jorah murmurs, still staring at his feet. He slumps, defeated.

“You do not apologise to me. You apologise to the Horse Lord, who is a strong and worthy foe. You shake hands with the Khal, and the Mormont honour will remain true.”

“Lady of the Bear, you are a powerful and persuasive ally. The Horse Lords of the Great Grass Sea salute you. You are a fine  _ akkelenak  _ of your  _ khalasar. _ ”

She bows, solemnly. “ _ Yer chomoe anna. Dothras chek _ .”

Jorah, unsure what to do, stands about looking quite useless, especially when the Dothraki grins, savage and amused, and claps a dragon-scale inked hand upon his odd niece’s shoulder. This is a normal occurrence.

The uselessness. Not the niece who appears to speak passable Dothraki and is probably considered a  _ Khal  _ by the Horse Lords by now.

 

* * *

 

“No way, dude.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that-?”

“Oh no. That’s not fair. He can’t substitute Jojen and put-!”

“We are, like, totally fucked, Robb.”

“We’re going to die.”

“If we’re going to die, can we, like, y’know?”

“I am not shagging you because you’re scared of Arya bitch slapping you.”

“She’s dangerous, man! She’s, like, vicious. Ankle-biter. Like a Jack Russell Terrier.”

“She’s talking with that ginger bloke with the weird hair. I don’t like her talking with the ginger bloke with the weird hair.”

“That’s Jaqen, he’s like an assassin or some shit.”

“I don’t like him talking to her. He’s too old for her, and he’s got stupid hair.”

“You got the best hair, Robb. Like, I dunno, red and fire-kissed and shit.”

“Aw, thanks Theon, that’s really nice...you’re stoned, aren’t you?”

“Dude, what else is there to do in Winterfell than smoke and play rugby at the same time? It’s a shithole full of sheep and snow.”

“Yeah, because the Iron Islands are so much cooler, huh?”

“We get fishing, fucking, and raiding small coastal towns in boats with fuck-off dragon heads on the prow. Prow’s, like, the pointy front bit at the front. We’re pirates. You’re sheep shaggers.”

“That’s Tyrells, Theon. We’re granite-jawed northerners who hate everyone from the south.”

“Maybe I can plunder your booty?”

“...daft bastard, you know that?”

“Love y-...shit. She’s coming. Hide! Hide before she kicks you in the bollocks or some shit, dude!”

“Robb? Why’s Theon hiding behind you?”

“Because you’re going to kick him in the bollocks, or so he thinks.”

“Nah, I won’t do that. Unless he’s a fucking cunt.”

“Arya! Language!”

“Piss off, Robb.”

“And who is this Jaqen person?”

“He’s hot. He’s got an awesome accent. He likes knives and LARPing, and rugby.”

“You are too young to go out with a man who could or could not be twice your age, my girl!”

“Heh, you sound like Mum.”

“...I hate you.”

“Hate me more when we annihilate your arseholes. You’re goin’ down.”

“I could, like, totally go dow-”

“Theon! Stop flirting with me right this second, young man! I have a girlfriend!”

“Woah, you do totally go Catelyn. That’s terrifying as fuck, man. Don't do it to Bronn, he'll want to MILF you.”

 

* * *

 

The second half is as bruising and thumping as the first. 

He manages to stop thinking about massaging Brienne’s groin as the match progresses, though every so often his mind drifts and he wonders about kissing it better.

Jaime roars encouragement, pacing along the sidelines, trying to get Stannis to piss off, shut up, and sit the hell down. For some reason, probably because this is Ned’s team and he’s always been jealous of Robert and the Stark patriarch’s bond, Baratheon is winding himself up into a twisty knotted frenzy that not even Davos can unravel. He grinds his teeth, blue eyes like storm clouds, hands in fists as he stalks alongside Jaime like a ball of wildfire that is set to explode.

Edd passes, gets buried by an Umber but thankfully doesn’t come to any amusing yet painful harm, and Karstark snatches the ball with glee. Brienne twists, and he sees her wide mouth twist along with her body, pain stabbing, before she lopes after the ball-carrier. Fast he may be, but she has a good four inches and a longer stride, and she launches herself, skidding on semi-frozen mud, tapping his ankles and bringing him down five yards from the try line. His flailing foot grazes the side of her blonde head but she scrambles to her feet and flings herself back into the churning mass of players.

Bolton snags the ball, snarls, and bounds forward; he is curiously untouched, although little Starklette flings herself at him with vigour. He flicks to Jon who shimmies in his enviably elegant way, spurting into the open field. He dances, fleet as his father ever was, leaping over one, no, two tackles, before passing beautifully to Gendry. The mechanic slams into the chest of a Manderley, who laughs until he is ploughed into the grass, and thunders ever onwards. No wonder the Blackfish stole him, as well as importing something handsome to look at when Connington isn’t around. Looks a bit like Robert, which is strange.

Oh. By the Seven.

Jaime pauses, looks from his player to Stannis, notes the eye colour and the dark hair. Bloody hells. That’s a turn up for the books if ever there was one. Explains why Gendry is that good, though; Robert was a genius until he discovered drink and girls in university and couldn’t be arsed any more.

His team. No. Brienne and his team. Like they are the parents, and this is their baby, their beautiful baby. The play is fluid, and spectacular, and Jaime feels his chest rise and tighten with the sheer pleasure of watching a good, solid team make the best of their abilities.

To Drogo, who unselfishly throws to Jorah, who is brought down by the red and white haired assassin from Lorath. They maintain possession, and it is neatly sent back down the field. Bronn, then Clegane who batters his way between the Wolves with all the finesse of a large and slobbery mastiff, then Giantsbane. He forces through, whistles for attention, tips the ball into Brienne’s waiting hands, and she powers forward, even if she limps just that tiny bit, and is across the try line in a spatter of mud.

Theon gets the conversion, even if he is giggling like the stoned little shit he is.

 

* * *

“Last five minutes,” Rhaegar says. He wraps his arms around his body, and still isn’t wearing anything apart from smart woollen trousers and a short sleeved rugby shirt in the Wolves colours. Even if everyone else is bundled up and freezing to death, he seems perfectly at home with bare arms. His nipples aren’t even hard. Stannis hovers between hate, fascination, and an embarrassing lick of desire. Targaryens are very attractive. Not as lovely as Davos, who is untidy and rumpled, and kind. Wonderful. An excellent listener who gives even more excellent advice. The tattoos. Targaryens are beautiful in the way of an ancient Valyrian statue. Gorgeous, and you wonder what it would be like to touch perfection, but leave him a little cold. “Last five minutes, and we’re all square.”

Stannis sniffs. He has taken to wearing a King’s Landing scarf wrapped about his neck. It is, apparently, jaunty to wear it looped in such a fashion. Davos told him that, and therefore it must be the truth.

He loves Davos. Davos brings him coffee every fifteen minutes, and squeezes his hand in a subtle display of affection, purposely designed not to embarrass.

“Your Tarth is impressive.”

“She is.”

“Jaime can’t keep his eyes off her, bless him. Selwyn must be so proud. She hasn’t been stolen by Brynden yet, I hear? Good girl, she’s very loyal.” Warm and fond. Rhaegar tends to love everyone. Apart from his father. Which, given his father was Aerys Targaryen, who liked setting fire to things in a fit of pique when Crownlands lost, and had to be punched in the face by a seventeen year old Jaime when he tried to burn down his own rugby stadium, is perfectly understandable. Aerys, sent on gardening leave during the criminal investigation, never returned as head coach.

The King is Dead, long live the Democratic and peaceful rule of Barristan Selmy.

What to do with the knowledge of Lannister’s regard for Brienne? If this were the good old days, he would allow courting with the presence of a strict chaperone, no contact apart from the occasional handshake,and the moment that Jaime started trying to press his troth there would be marriage or nothing but ignominy and embarrassment all round.

Jane Austen taught Stannis much about  _ affair de coeur _ . Everyone, he is convinced, should read her novels for the correct etiquette when it comes to love. If they cannot stomach consuming great literature, the philistines, then he will allow them to watch the Westeros Broadcasting Company’s version of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ , but they have to fast-forward past Mr. Darcy emerging soaking wet and in very tight breeches from the lake as that is an anachronism.

Perhaps Davos could wear very tight breeches and wade in a lake? Horses could be involved. Vast estates with handsome houses and many maids. Four poster beds. Repressed flirting whilst dancing to charming country music. Taking the waters at spa towns whilst the gossips pair them off with elegant and unsuitable young ladies? Perhaps Davos would be beneath Stannis’ elevated station? Perhaps his chief groom, or a handsome penniless captain down on his luck, who is worldly and wise and takes the young Baratheon firmly in hand, pressing him down upon a chintz-covered chaise longue in the long gallery while generations of his forebears glare down from harsh-faced oil paintings-?

He squashes the mental imagery with a snap of his teeth.

“Where did you get that Jaqen?” Arya Stark, screaming like a proverbial banshee, links up with the Lorathi. They are quick, and nimble, and flow across the grass far too well for Stannis’ liking. The girl is surprisingly good for someone who looks like a gust of wind could knock her over, though she does have her Bolton tendences.

Oh. Oh no. “Did Arya just bite Ramsay?”

“Karma, perhaps?” Unrepentant. Everyone knows about the King’s Landing pet psychopath. Even Rhaegar, who is generally acknowledged as lovely, finds it difficult to dredge up good will towards Bolton.

Fists start swinging, Stark versus Bolton, and no one can get near as they snap and snarl and wrestle. She is tiny and agile, though Ramsay also moves well, and they end up screaming insults at each other in the middle of the pitch, kicking and punching but never quite managing to connect hands and flesh.

In the stands someone starts chanting ‘ _ fight! Fight!’ _

Of course it’s Tyrion.

Beric looks at the sideline, questioningly and eminently sensible, and Stannis, grinding his teeth, nods. To have to unleash the enforcers of manners and fair play? Really, he needs to do something about Bolton, but the girl did antagonise him first. He prevaricates, but comes down on the side of making an example. Suspension, perhaps. No. A muzzle. A great and strong Hannibal Lecter style muzzle. Surely Martell will know where to get one of those? He has catalogues for many things, as he reminds everyone in a bi-weekly basis.

Dondarrion and Giantsbane wade through the sea of bewildered players, seize earlobes, and drag the two angry short people apart.

“Ramsay, stop being a dick.”

“And you, tiny angry girl! Stop...ow! She bit me!”

“I apologise about the misbehaviour of Bolton. He has calmed down this season, and I thought this out of his system, but obviously I was incorrect. He shall face consequences.”

Where are they going to find a fullback at this point in the season? Honour and fair play forces his hand. Ramsay will be suspended for a match or two, left to think about what he has done, and they are down to fourteen men.

Bugger.

Perhaps he will have to don the shirt of King’s Landing, to make up numbers. Perhaps even Lannister? He shall discuss with Brienne post-match.

“It happens. Arya can be hot-headed. She once told one of the Frey boys that she’ll kill him, cook him in a pie, and feed him to old Walder, just for accidentally running into her.” An overly warm arm ends up about Stannis’ shoulders, and the man freezes. What in the name of the Warrior is Targaryen doing? Not the most naturally tactile of men, Baratheon finds it odd that others enjoy touching. Understandably he enjoys physicality with Davos, but he chooses to participate in that. Davos is, obviously, a handsome, attractive, sexually alluring man. It is understandable to want to caress, kiss, lick, nuzzle, possibly even suck various parts of his body, albeit not in public. To casually throw an arm around a person, without knowing them, is quite an alien concept.

Not that Rhaegar Targaryen seems to notice the stillness, the stiff body posture. He’s one of those people who exists only to snuggle as many animate - and some inanimate - objects he can in one lifetime.

 

* * *

 

Two minutes to go.

The Wolves fake a pass, Jaqen gathering the ball with contemptuous ease. He streaks away, hair flying, but thankfully collides with the manful bulk of Sam. Winterfell knock on as the ball spills loose, and Tarly, apologising profusely, helps the Lorathi to his feet with sweaty, clumsy hands.

They are dead on their feet. To a man, King’s Landing is done. Even the super fit, like Brienne, Drogo, and Gendry, suffer.

Winterfell is relatively fresh, Rhaegar canny with his substitutions. Arya is dangerous, especially as she has a synergy with H’ghar. Thankfully Gendry seems to be enjoying taking the girl down, though Pod hovers by her, asks her if she’s okay, if she needs anything, and she laughs at both of the young men, white teeth stark against her mud-smeared cheeks.

Gendry looks at Pod, who looks at Gendry, and, as one, they look at the tiny Stark girl who blows them both mocking kisses and races away.

The penalty is taken, rather soft and exhausted. So weary, running on empty, and Robb somehow manages to squirrel away from the charging hugeness that is Smalljon Umber. He fumbles the throw, but Brienne, and she is everywhere, even injured, even as her body is forced on by sheer willpower, catches with her fingertips.

They’ve practiced this, a hundred times. Men outside, to her right and left, and she manages a hooking throw to a waiting Martell. Rolling with it all, but not as swift as he usually is, a tackle topples him, and the ball is knocked loose. No knock on, though, which is a mercy given by the Seven. Jon scoops, and Rhaegar screams for his son, quite forgetting what side Snow is playing for, or just admiring the student’s skill. He is a facsimile of his father, in style; dark horse, is Jon Snow. He is growing as a player with every game. To Gendry, who does his bull in a china shop impression, and then he slithers on the cold grass, falls, and the ball is loose yet again.

Messy. So very messy. Robb has taken a knock, resulting in a cut lip, but he soldiers onwards. Stark would need to be decapitated to stop him; he’s that tenacious.

One minute to go.

They keep trying, they keep forcing forward, but are driven back by less tired legs, by a side that has the luxury of substitution. Inch by inch they are pushed from the Winterfell twenty two, almost to the halfway line.

Thirty seconds.

Screaming. Everyone is screaming. Tension radiates and twists, and everyone - from groundsman to player to spectator is on their feet. The noise swells and roils like thunder in a storm cloud, circling about the stadium as the seconds tick inexorably towards the end of the eighty minutes.

Another slamming of an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object. Brienne hisses in pain and Dondarrion catches her about the waist, helps her for a moment, before they stagger ever onward.

Ten seconds.

Tollett finds himself with the ball, playing pretty much one-handed for the last quarter of the match as his hand is complaining bitterly, but refusing to give in because they’d be a man down. He looks helplessly as hordes of silver and steel approach, closes his eyes, takes approximate aim, and just hoofs the ball as far and as hard as he can.

Professor Edd Tollett is not a natural kicker of the ball. He is excellent at his position, and a good leader of the forwards. He makes tackles, and doesn’t fumble. He’s safe hands, so they say; reliable, and always there, even if he does constantly bitch about it.

Five seconds.

Four.

The ball bobbles alarmingly as it sails through the air.

Stupid idea, to try a drop kick from this distance, against the Wolves who will take the ball and score a try because of his idiocy, because that is what happens to Edd Tollett. Nothing goes his way, and he is prepared for it. They are going to lose in the dying seconds because of him.

The screaming intensifies, and suddenly his world is upside down. Someone tackles him, and he is perturbed but not unusually so to find that it is one of his own teammates. Oberyn Martell clambers astride him, shaking his shoulders and beaming, Edd supine in the cold and mud which is just his luck. This is not an unusual situation. Oberyn Martell is astride many people, after all. Edd himself is often flat on his back in the mud.

“Ah, my dolorous one!”

“What?”

“I could kiss you! I shall leave that to your most beautiful girlfriend, however.”

“Why did you tackle me?” Resigned to his fate. Shenanigans. Always shenanigans.

A gesture towards the scoreboard, Oberyn bouncing with excitement which makes Edd feel vaguely nauseous.

**_Wolves of Winterfell 21: King’s Landing 24._ **

It went over. Holy mother of Dragons, it went over

The desperate drop kick attempt snuck over the bar, and King’s Landing win the match with two seconds to spare.

For the first time in his entire life, since he discovered pessimism aged eleven and became far too fond of long-dead philosophers, Professor Edd Tollett actually grins, showing teeth, his eyes bright and sparkling and he looks both dashing and handsome.

Of course this does not last long. In their desperation to celebrate, he is hoisted upon the shoulders of the students and is promptly dropped, resulting in a minor scalp contusion and having to go through concussion protocols.

Such is the luck of Dolorous Edd.

 

* * *

“Brienne!”

She drips sweat, even on this cold day, mud plastering across her face and slicking her pale hair back. Never, in her life, has she felt this exhausted. Never has she run herself into the ground so hard, played so desperately.  _ So well _ , a loving voice in her head tells her.  _ You did well, my girl _ .

The voice, like it always is, is Selwyn Tarth’s.

Pitch invasions happen sometimes, especially after incredible displays of rugby, and she is slapped on the arse by a passing Tyrion, Davos squeezes her in a brief and uncaring about being covered in filth hug, before she is spat out of the other side of the thronging masses. For a moment there is peace. Tranquility. The mass of people boils, and there are hugs and kisses, and Rhaegar Targaryen is twirling Jon before kissing his forehead in pride. Tormund and his tiny Wildling valkyrie are snogging, and Val is gasping something about victory, blood, and pride of the Free Folk between kisses.

Around her are families and friends, and neither team is particularly upset at the result. A hard, honest game, of sometimes brilliant rugby. Knights of old, in an honourable battle to the last, she thinks. Her knights, who have performed above any of their wildest dreams and have beaten the Wolves. They. Have beaten. The Wolves.

She’s shaking, adrenaline numbing the aches and pains wracking her body, rather woozy from tackling Karstark and being kicked in the temple - after all, she’s been hit, harder, by larger men, but perhaps she needs to go through the concussion protocol just in case? She’ll have to do that, yes. Sure, tomorrow Brienne will suffer. Sure, there will be cold baths with ice, and stretching, and careful consideration by Thoros about the best way to heal her strain, but for now, in this arena, this glorious bastion of chivalric practice, she is caught between wild joy and exhausted pleasure.

And a headache.

“There you are, wench!"

Jaime grins, beautiful and wild. He is as muddy as she is, from many player hugs.

“We won.” Still gasping for air.

“We beat Rhaegar Targaryen, Brienne. We slayed the Wolves. You and me, and those fourteen beautiful bastards out there who played until they dropped. We bloody well beat the Wolves, and a Targaryen, with an amateur team made up of old men and students!”

In a moment he is nearer, green eyes blazing, and he is the most glorious man in the entire stadium. It is a cliche to say that everything fades to just them; how Jaime breathes, chest heaving, as if he has also played the full eighty minutes on the pitch. How his hair is golden softness, and she wonders if her fingers would slide easily through the shining locks. He’s going silver at the temples, and it gives him a fallibility that makes Jaime more human, more real.

Her head pounds, even though the endorphines soothe the rest of her body.

“I could kiss you, you beautiful bloody brilliant wench of a woman. That was inspirational! The way you fought through, the way you were everywhere. I told Targaryen to piss off and find his own hooker when he started making noises about poaching you. You’re mine. I mean, you’re ours. You’re not going anywhere.”

Arms around her waist, and she is being held, bone-crushingly tight, against Jaime Lannister’s broad, muscular chest. He has a nice chest. Even through the layers of clothing she feels solidity and strength. She leans into him, and not only because he is gorgeous.

“Think I’m going to be sick,” she mumbles into his shoulder, shivering.

“Adrenaline does strange things to the human body,” he murmurs, Wriggling so he can look her in the eye. Nose to nose, and Jaime really is beautiful, even if there are currently two of him.

She blinks. Still two lovely golden-haired Lannisters.

“Oh. Which one of you is the real one?”

“Wench, are you okay?” His expression flickers from triumph to concern.

“Feel peculiar.” Three Jaime Lannisters frown, holding her tighter. The aching blossoms, blue Winterfell roses in her head that stab with long, dangerous thorns.

“Bloody hell, Brienne, you’re heavy. Shit. Thoros! Get your arse over here, Brienne’s hurt, I think she might have-”

The words grow fuzzy, like yarn or sheep or something soft and snuggly. She murmurs something that she can’t understand herself, tries to gather her thoughts. All woolly thoughts, like sheep, and a giggle pours from between her lips as she feels her knees refuse to something important. Oh. Right. They’re not holding her up any more. That’s silly. Silly knees. Jaime, who smells lovely, and she tells him that, and she also says he is beautiful and lovely and she wants to kiss him to say thank you for being so nice since the engagement party turns yellowish, like a kaleidoscope, then another set of arms is around her, and it is Davos who talks gently in his lovely Flea Bottom accent, and his beard tickles her arm since he is short compared to her, then Oberyn is there and Stannis and why is she lying down where is Jaime oh he’s holding her hand a bit tight and it hurts but he’s there and that is lovely because he is so handsome, and she tells him that she fancied him when she was fifteen and wanted to be like him so fast and strong and talented and he is the best player she’s ever seen and he smiles and kisses her gently on the forehead before everything turns a little more foggy around the edges and she asks about the mist because it was just overcast and cold when they were playing but now the mist is all there and then.

Nothing.

Just sweet, pain-free oblivion.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Good Omens_ , by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Best. Book. Ever. At least, when I’m not being disgustingly pretentious. When I am being disgustingly pretentious, I default to _One Hudred Years of Solitude_ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Magic realism *happy sigh*
> 
> ** My brother was the keyboard murderer of Sinclairs when he played that game. He was an angry Clegane of a player.


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

 

 

“I’ll stay with her.”

He and Stannis have been quietly arguing for the last fourteen minutes. All very civilised, but Jaime is about ready to punch the bastard in the face.

“I should remain with Brienne. I am the sponsor of the team, after all.”

“And tell me, Stannis,” and Jaime purposely injects a certain arrogant amusement into his tone, because he really is pissed off, “how is a man with one hand supposed to drive a minibus back to King’s Landing? Giantsbane has a hangover the size of the Red Keep and threw up on Edd. Again. Dondarrion can’t do manual gearboxes. Do you seriously want to let Clegane drive? Do you remember when he nudged that old biddy in her hybrid hatchback into the central reservation? No. Bad idea. I’ll stay with Brienne, and rent a car, bring her down when she’s out of hospital. You drive the rest of the team back and then go and try and find us another hooker and a fullback.”

Baratheon, teeth straining as he works his jaw, growls. He obviously hates it when Jaime is correct, when Jaime is logical. After all, that isn’t a usual thing, especially after the drinking started. He has a sneaking suspicion that while Stannis is, as he said, proud of the lack of drunkenness, he resents having to deal with semi-competent Lannisters.

“If you are not careful, Lannister, it will be me and you who take to the rugby field. Finding spare players this late in the season is nigh on impossible; if we cannot field a full team, we forfeit games.”

“I’ll smack the enemy surreptitiously with my rubber hand?”

“Don’t be facetious, Lannister.”

“She’s going to be fine, Stannis. I’ll look after her.”

“I worry.”

“Too much.”

Stannis looks like shit, but then so does Jaime. They look like shit together. Like they are bonding.

 

* * *

 

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Clegane rolls his shoulders, yawns, kicks Beric in the shin albeit in a friendly manner. “Stop out wanker that he is.”

“He looks well on it.” Dondarrion is doing the Times cryptic crossword, pen in hand, trying to disassemble a particularly tricky clue. “Apart from the love bites.”

“Says the bastard who gets fucked over nightly.”

“Weekly, Sandor. Thursday nights are dungeon nights.” Scribbling, frowning at the newspaper print.

Clegane shoots him a disgusted yet curiously resigned look. However much he tries, he can’t persuade Beric to stop his alternative lifestyle bollocks. “Still think that’s creepy as shit, bro.”

“It’s a hobby, bro.”

Tormund collapses into the rattan chair next to them, pauses, decides he doesn’t like where he is. He looks like he needs the settee. “Shift, Dondarrion.”

Beric does so. He is well trained in the ways of his brethren. He swaps with Tor, who groans, stretching out on the settee, closing his eyes.

“Fifty four across. ‘One won’t knock you out in your pub?’” Beric is a dab-hand at these puzzles, and introduced Clegane to Sudoku as a way to promote zen thought and relaxation. Which, frankly, is a load of hippy shitballs. Fucking R’hllor devotees with their meditative practices. Usually Dondarrion finds the book thrown across the living room with obscenities scrawled over the pages, or Sansa snuggled up to the Sandor’s big broad chest as they do the tricky little number logic grids together.

Anything to be with Sansa.

“Local.” Ramsay stalks past, snaps the answer as he explodes out into the wishy-washy northern daylight. He’s clutching his pack of postgame cigarettes as if he might die if nicotine isn’t injected into his system right that moment; he used to smoke ten a day as a stress reliever when living with Roose, according to Beric.

Sandor hopes he chokes and dies. Cunt.

“Oh. Local as in pub, local as in local anaesthetic. Of course it is.”

“...when did Bolton get less shit-thick?” Cunty McCuntface.

“He’s an intelligent man. Hidden depths, like you.”

“Piss off.”

“Hidden depths are a good thing.”

“Coffee.” Tormund blinks, grittily. Close up it looks as if he has fallen into a snake pit filled with very angry, very mouthy vipers. Tiny Wildling vipers.

Beric does the honours without being ordered. He’s a good cunt.

“Fuck, mate. You’ve been Val’d?"

“Four times.” He rolls his eyes towards Clegane, chest seemingly still heaving. “Four times. Goodbye present. Came to give me one, no, four as a goodbye.” The man seems to be unable to form coherent sentences, which is either a testament to the skills of that mad Wildling woman, or Giantsbane’s apparent lack of stamina. Four times, though. Fuck. Even him and Sansa would be knackered, and they’ve been training bastard hard for the metaphorical Shagging Olympics. He can’t keep his hands off her, and she apparently thinks the same. Weird bloody woman.

He’s quite a bit in love with her, but is afraid to admit to Sansa that he has this feeling shit happening.

“Goodbye? She goin’ north?"

“Yeah. Mance wants to talk.”

“Shit, bro. You al-?”

“S’only sex. S’all good. Rebound shaggin’.” He lays a hand across his eyes, groans like a bath emptying. Beric deposits a thick black coffee on the table, finds a comfortably squishy cushion, and tucks it behind Tormund’s ginger head before smoothing the tangled locks back.

“Brufen and lots of water. I’ll make up a little travel kit for you, get you an inflatable pillow from the shop.” Beric’d be a good Mum. He cares.

“If ye were a girl…” Tor smiles, faintly. He’s fucked, totally wrecked, obviously still drunk. “I’d put a ring on it.”

“You’re still pissed, aren’t you? Bros look after bros. Back in a mo.” A pat to the cheek, and off he strides again.

“Tor. Sansa’s got girlfriends. Uh. Fuck, not like that.”

“I volunteer to watch!” Giggling. Sandor throws a cushion at him, misses, pegs a passing Edd Tollett who looks vaguely terrorised with it all. Someone has been sick on him.

“Shut your bastard gob, Gingerpubes. But she might see if one of her girls wants a date or some shit?”

Sandor isn’t the romantic type, at least when it comes to other people. He finds it difficult to show any other feelings apart from grumpiness, anger, and a fierce loyalty that people often overlook, though Sansa teases other emotions from him. When they are alone, and Clegane prefers it when they are, not just when they’re having sex - they have ridiculous amounts of it, to the point where condoms are a permanent shopping list item for the flat, let alone just Sandor - he can be that little more open. Sure, still pissed off at the world, but never at the pretty, no, beautiful girl who seems to like him for whatever reason.

His bros evoke a sort of similar feeling. Before Sansa he had Beric and Tormund, and they were a trio. Now they are not splitting apart, but, uh, what’s the word? Morphing? Yeah, morphing will do. They’re expanding to encompass Sansa, which is fucking brilliant, and that little cunt fucker bastard fuckweasel Bolton who Dondarrion refuses to leave alone, and it’d be nice if Tormund had a lady friend - or a guy friend, he’s never discussed if Tor likes blokes but if he does that’s totally cool - that they can hang out with. Someone pretty, and nice, and who thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks.

Surreptitiously he finds the second-hand mobile phone that Sansa gave him, the one with the unfortunate pink sparkly case with the unicorn on, with added rainbows and glitter, and since she gave it to him Sandor hasn’t the heart to change the case because it was Sansa’s, and that’s Important, and starts laboriously tapping out a text message.

Predictive text tries to change all of what he says into swearing.

The phone knows him too well.

 

* * *

 

Nobody bothers Oberyn Martell, for not only is he texting but he nurses a rather angry hangover that leads to him elegantly lounging about, wearing designer sunglasses, picking delicately at some fruit.

_My head, sweet boy, feels as if there is a Dothraki living within it. Such a night I have not seen for many a week._

_RU still drunk??? :O_

_Unfortunately, I am sober. My body pounds, my head aches. I wish to be with you, your soothing fingers running through my hair as you feed me sugared almonds and press loving kisses to my fevered brow. I insist you accompany me on the next trip north. It is cold, and I desire your warmth. I desire you. This is too long to be spent apart from you._

_I will come nxt time. U r luvly :)_

_Come in more ways than one, naughty little rose?_

_Incorrigible :D:D:D_

_How you can spell the more complex of words and still inflict your text speak upon me, I do not understand?_

_Mayb ur old?_

Cheeky boy.

_That is a low blow. I am mature. Grown up. Seasoned. In the prime of life. If I were a fruit tree, I would be at full potential. Ripe for the picking._

_Id eat you lol! :D_

_You seem most perky this morning? How can one be so exuberant when working for the Baratheon? Has he not locked up in his dungeon with an explicit order to do his work for him?_

_Dont wanna think o/Stannis like that ew!!!!! So not gud at all ew!!!!! :P_

_Five exclamation marks, sweet Tyrell? Have you finally lost your sanity?_

_Im not in work 2day. No overtime yay! Waitin 4 u 2 come home and do u want 2 come 2 mine 4 dinner. I can cook??? I missed u_

This admittance, followed by a whole string of blushy faces and tiny hearts - somehow, probably by witchcraft, his phone has updated to allow proper little pictures for the emoticons and not just punctuation - is adorable. Like Willas himself.

If any word sums up that Tyrell, it is that one. Adorable to the bones.

It is strange to think that Oberyn might be settling down, just a little. Of course he still has urges; he is a sensual, sexual being, who, as Ellaria tells him, wishes to make love with the entire world. Giving himself to so many is a measure of how much he appreciates the beauty of all. The differences, the tiny eccentricities of the human race, sublimated into each person. Divinity is in everyone; everyone is divine. It is never sluttish to enjoy healthy, varied sexual encounters with a variety of like-minded and willing partners. Often at the same time. In many configurations.

An image of Willas, lovingly tied to the bed with silken handkerchiefs and being nibbled all over by a variety of handsome and strapping men is quite the fetching thing.

_So very domestic of you. The food here is adequate, though northern. Most stodgy and not enough seasoning. They do not seem to understand the concept of a salad, or vegetarianism. Much meat, and potato, and suet. The puddings are delicious, and served hot, with custard. I have experienced ‘spotted dick,’ not for the first time, though it is the first time I have eaten such a thing rather than recommended attending a clinic._

_U cant get scurvy, u r not a pirate arrrrrrrgh! Tho i like the idea of u as a pirate arrrrrrrgh!!! :D:D:D:D:D_

_You seem more like you scream with pain than give the appropriate yarrrr noises._

_YARRRRRRR is better than arrrrrrgh! Ur rite as always :P_

_Put that tongue away, my rose. What have you been cooking? Of course I shall dine with you. I would be honoured._

_Will u stay w/me tonite?_

The words seem loaded. Three little words. No, not those three little words, the more serious ones that start with ‘I’ and end with ‘love you.’ He has never spent a full night with Tyrell, has never awoken the next morning to find Willas snuggled into his arms, or draped around his back, or blearily finding coffee and toast before work. Such is the life of a partner in Stannis Baratheon’s firm that the man is permanently rushed off his feet, never having a chance to breathe. It has never been necessary to sleep together, in the purest meaning, as they have busy schedules and frantic lives.

Of course they have rampant sex. Tons of it. Sometimes even verging towards the kinky. Willas, after all, is horribly well read. He has an e-reader full of classical literature, and Oberyn has recommended the more esoteric and sexually deviant of texts. Watching his fragrant rose wading through _Lady Chatterley’s Lover,_ and the more racy parts of Chaucer’s _Tales_ , is truly fascinating. He turns squirming and breathy in turn, eyes shining, lips parted.

Literature gives Willas ideas.

Oberyn runs his fingers about the edge of his phone, comes to a decision.

_I demand better coffee. Yours is shockingly pedestrian, and instant coffee is the work of the Stranger and all his demonic imps, foolish boy. I shall have to provide a stove-top flip pot and teach you how to use it, for breaking the fast deserves something decent to drink. It is a ritual, not just food._

_< 3 ur so pretentious. Coffee hipster :)_

_Again, how you can spell your longer words and be so lazy with the rest? You are naughty, sweet boy. You have capable fingers and yet you refuse to use them._

_Rather keep em rested 4 when u get home :O :D :P <33333 _

_Promises, Willas, get you whatever you desire._

_Just u :) Just u Obi._

 

* * *

 

“Feels like I’ve been hit by a lorry.”

The pounding in her head is less now she’s had plenty of water, some of those strong painkillers that the doctor recommended she take every four to six hours and can be staggered with another NSAID that doesn’t contain the same active ingredients. Random parts of her ache, especially her left eye socket, though thankfully the groin seems positively cheerful compared to the rest of her. Of course the moment Brienne stands up, it’ll start nagging, but for now she is cautiously optimistic that it isn’t as bad as she thought it would be. Possibly she could start a game next week?

At least they are just waiting for the release paperwork to be processed. Jaime has commandeered a rental car, an automatic, and seems overly excited at the thought of driving. He’s not been behind the wheel since the hand incident, and Brienne is just praying that he doesn’t get too enthusiastic and rear end something like a lorry, or a police car, or an angry walking stick wielding grandmother trying to cross the road.

“Looks like it too, wench.”

Jaime looks human, for once; rumpled around the edges, his hair tangled and he keeps raking his fingers through the golden locks. Stubbly. Not, obvious Baratheon five o’clock madness, but a prickling across his jawline that catches in the harsh fluorescent overhead light.

“We won, that’s all that matters.” She wonders about trying to get out of bed, dressing, making herself look presentable to the world.

The moment she says the words, something changes.

Jaime tenses to the point she almost feels it.

Something around them seems to shift and sharpen, almost static. Glancing up, she realises that his expression lacks something. Usually there is an underlying glittering amusement, a Jaime-flavoured humour at the world, at everything. He uses it to deflect, and charm, and to avoid anything overly uncomfortable. For the first time, since she saw him drunk and angry, or even before that; since Jaime Lannister burst onto the rugby scene as a lean-limbed seventeen year old with the brightest of futures, since those posters she stuck to her walls with Blu-Tac, since those interviews with rugby magazines she poured over aged fifteen. For the first time, it seems, in the last ten or so years that Brienne has been aware of the man, he seems drained of that spark.

“That is not the fucking point, Brienne.” Humourless, voice flattish.

“Yes, it is.”

“No it isn’t, you bloody idiot!  You could have been hurt more than this, wench. You could have been seriously injured. Normal people tell their coaches that they’ve got a head injury, but no. Not you. You play almost an entire half after fucking Karstark kicked you in the head!”

“The team needed me.” Tiredness threatens to overwhelm, and she sighs, tugging the rough blanket about her a little more tightly. “That’s what I do, Jaime. I play through the pain and the injury because I have to set an example to the rest of them.”

Why is he angry at her? She doesn’t understand.

“Fuck the rest of them. You’re more important than that."

“Jaime-”

“I know what it can be like. You’re the best player in a team, they rely on you. Over time it builds to a place where you’re convinced they can’t function without you, because that’s how important you are, how it seems. I’ve been there, wench. Remember?” He glares at his stump, the prosthetic nowhere in sight. “I could have saved my hand if I didn’t insist on trying to play. Did you know that? I didn’t come off the pitch because I was arrogant enough to think I was irreplaceable, got tackled with the ball, fell on the break which up to that point could have been mended, the doctors said, it shattered, bone shards did their magic, then it got infected, and it destroyed any chance of being healed up. I lost my hand because of Gregor Clegane and my own bloody stupidity, Brienne. And a hand? It’s only a hand. When it’s your head, you stubborn stupid wench, you can’t fuck around with that!”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Talking makes her brain ache, and Brienne desperately fights to focus. “Stop being a team player?”

“Stop being a martyr and let someone else take the damned reins for a moment. Stop putting yourself in danger just because of the game. It’s only a game, for Gods’ sake, Brienne. It’s not life. It feels like it, when you’re playing, when you’re at the peak of the obsession, but rugby isn’t anything compared to your health.”

Jaime Lannister just told her that rugby isn’t the be all and end all. It does not compute.

“Who am I supposed to rely on? Stannis is a good man but doesn’t understand managing people.”

“Me. You rely on me.” His eyes seem overly green, blazing. “You think I’ve not got your back?”

“Jaime.” He is beautiful, even unkempt and ruffled and exhausted. “First you hate me, then you, for some reason unbeknown to anyone but yourself, try and get me to go on a date, try and make me feel sorry and manipulate me into doing so. Why, I’ve no idea, but it obviously has something to do with your rivalry with Tormund. Then you start being more pleasant, more professional. What am I supposed to think? How can I rely on someone when I have no idea who they are? Which one is you? Because I have no idea what you want from me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about you, Jaime. Am I supposed to trust you when I’ve little reason to? Am I supposed to hate you? Tell me what is going on, because I’m concussed, and I’m really sore, and I’m not in the mood to play your game any more.”

“A game.” He almost laughs, a choking sound. “What is life if not a game?”

What do you want, Jaime?” She closes her eyes, the darkness calming, unaware of the frantic lion-esque pacing next to her bed.

“I-. No. Fuck it. Sodding hells. Do I know what I want? Yes. Yes, I do. I want to make you grin even when you’re covered in mud, freezing cold, and sick of the team. I want to tease you so much that you smack me across the arm and call me a bastard, because I am essentially an eleven year old boy at heart and that’s akin pulling the pigtails of a girl I really like because emotionally I am quite screwed up and juvenile. I want to take you sword shopping and for you to teach me what the hell my father collects, because I’ve no idea. It’s all pointy bits of metal to me. I want to tell your father that he’s raised a really good human being, the most honest and noble of anyone I’ve ever met, even if you’re too stubborn and rigid for your own good. I want to frustrate you, and piss you off, and annoy you, because I like how you argue back, just as good as I give. I want to make you laugh, to the point where you’re aching and crying with it, just to see your smile. I want to coach with you, next season. The season after that. Maybe for a hell of a lot of seasons. Maybe not just coaching. Maybe I want to make it an all year round partnership of me and you. Maybe I am so fucking angry at your stupidity because I can’t think of what I’d do without you in my life, making me want to strangle you, kiss you, love you, all at the same bloody time, Brienne. Maybe that’s what I want. You. You, you frustrating wench.”

The words echo seconds, minutes, an eternity after they are said.

“And yes, you’re concussed, and this is a selfish thing I’m doing, but if I don’t explain why I am so pissed off at you, and worried, you’ll just think I’m just being Jaime Lannister at you, arrogant shit that I am. You’ll just think I’m stressing about not having a full team, and the next game, when I’m just terrified, wench. Terrified of what could have happened. Of these feelings I have about you. But you know what? If I don’t tell you now, when I have a captive audience,” and it is obvious with his faint smirk not at full wattage he is merely playing at the joke, “then I’ll never do it.”

“Did?” and she struggles to sit up, hating the scratch of the thin hospital gown. Oberyn made sure her luggage was sent to the hospital, but she’s not had the energy to change into her pyjamas. “Did you just tell me you are in love with me?”

The pointedness of his expression confirms it. In amongst all his other words, and there were many of them, more than she’s ever heard pouring from his mouth, Jaime Lannister said he wanted to love her.

“How badly concussed am I?” she asks, slowly, frowning.

“Enough to admit that you fancied me when you were fifteen.”

Oh.

“Quite concussed then.” She wraps her hands in the blanket, staring at the weave of the fabric, embarrassment blazing a trail across her cheeks and ears.

“You got what I said though. What I meant.”

“You love me?”

“For all our flaws, of which we have many, yet they compliment, don’t you think? Yes. I love you. Shit. I’ve not said it out loud like that before, ever. It’s quite big, isn’t it, to admit something like that to the person you want to say it to?"

“You’re an idiot, Lannister.” He is. A beautiful golden idiot who has told her, Brienne Tarth, that he loves her.

She’s not sure what to think. Never before has she been in such a situation. The only people who have previously loved her are Selwyn, Galladon, and her friends, and that wasn’t like this. This is romantic, and sexual, and as serious a thing that there ever could be. He isn’t lying, she is sure about that, because Jaime isn’t clever enough to be so machiavellian like the boys at rugby camp. Manipulative, and selfish, yes. Insolent. More than a little vain. Egotistical. But he is not the sort of person to lie about something so fundamental.

“Well,” and he manages a smile, “you didn’t scream at me, throw a bedpan, or tell me I’m a deluded arsehole with the emotional capacity of a bag of chips, so I’m seeing this as a slight victory.”

“Jaime, you can stop talking now.”

He does so, and moves to the side of her bed, almost warily, settling into the armchair.

For a moment they just look at each other; he seems exhausted, shadowy under his eyes and wracked by a nervousness that seems very un-Jaime, and Brienne wonders how much of him she truly has seen. They both have barriers, mostly impenetrable, that protect them from what the world throws. When they are together, just them, for these weeks following the engagement party, they seem to slip into a rhythm. A togetherness, where her strengths and his strengths work together rather than riling and antagonising. Calmness, and pleasant silences, ideas that are talked about over coffees and the doughnuts Jaime seems addicted to even though the sod never puts on weight, discussion rather than argument. Sniping, of course, and bickering - that still remains. Not that it is vicious any more, more fond? Could that be it? More friendly and joking rather than the bitterness of before.

She unwinds a hand from the covers.

Perhaps Jaime is an acquired taste, like olives? She doesn’t mind olives. They can be salty, and sometimes in your face, and difficult to deal with, but oddly moreish and tasty with it.

Did she just compare Jaime to eating an olive? Perhaps the concussion is far more serious than she first considered?

It isn’t love. Brienne is too careful with her heart to go around falling deeply for random men, especially ones who seem to exist to drive her up the wall, especially when she has seen the levels to which he can sink.

For all his faults, and for all of hers, Brienne likes him. He is, underneath, a good man. Even if he has the emotional range of a five year old.

Quietly, without show, her fingers lace carefully into Jaime’s. His skin is smoother than hers, which isn’t surprising, and warm. Smooth and warm, and when he squeezes just a little, there is a giddying strength in the grip.

 

* * *

 

Stannis drives all the way to King’s Landing at a dizzying one mile an hour over the speed limit. Given the clench in his jaw, and the air of angry determination, Davos wonders what happened between him and Jaime, but decided three hours before, as they blew through the Vale, to allow his partner the privacy he needs. The question is the sort that needs asking in the comfort of somewhere that doesn’t have a rugby team desperate to hang on every word, especially as some of them are big-mouthed gossips, and whatever the reason for Stannis’ mood is, it would be spread across the city before closing time.

They dump the players at the clubhouse, where they left the cars, and Stannis parks up.

“What’s wrong? Stop grinding your teeth.”

Blue eyes glitter with ill-repressed agitation, a tic twitching in his left cheek. Others find Stannis intimidating, or faintly ridiculous, but every little flaw is lovely to Davos, who just wants to scoop him up, soothe away the tension, and kiss him until he is a boneless flopping fish of relaxation.

“I left damned Lannister with Brienne.”

“They’ve been getting on much better.”

“He is an arse, Davos. He is also in love with her.”

“Oh. Are you all, what was it you said? _Loki Parentals_?” Of course Jaime’s in love with her. It’s been obvious for weeks.

“ _Loco parentis_.” His fingers still grip the steering wheel, and it takes a certain amount of carefully applied strength for Davos to remove them from the leather. When they are finally gripping his own hand rather than bits of the minibus, gentle knuckles with just a hint of arthritis lightly stroke. Stroke, stroke. If Stannis were an animal, he would possibly be a dog. One of those elegantly thin ones, since he doesn’t eat enough, the idiot; a sighthound. Tall, and rangy, and permanently starving seeming, that curls into a tiny ball and loves being fussed, but hates admitting a need for affection. Loyal to those who deserve him.

“It’s not surprising he loves her, though, is it? Brienne is a bloody good girl.” She’s excellent with Stannis, and that means a lot. They’ve all become friends, to the point where Davos carefully approached his partner about asking her over for tea, which Baratheon corrected him on and said that he should call that dinner since he is a southerner, and Seaworth pointed out that he’s from Flea Bottom and dinner is what posh bastards call it, and then there was cuddling and watching _Dragonfly_. Sci-fi space westerns with men in leather jackets proved to be a hit with them both. They’ve moved on to one of Stannis’ favourites; a historical re-enactment of the Conqueror’s Wars starring someone who looks suspiciously like Ned Stark as a Captain Sharp, an Iron Islander made good. The actor keeps popping up in many things, and his appearance is a source of amusement to everyone who knows Eddard, but never Ned himself.

At least Stark hasn’t died in a tragic, gory, or well-deserved way. Yet. Must be tough when a man who is pretty much his twin, though better looking, is renowned for being killed off on film.

“She is far too good for him.” The grinding resumes, and Davos applies a gentle elbow to the ribs as a reminder to not do that. Stannis’ dental bills are eye-shatteringly high. “Brienne is a decent woman, and deserves someone far more suitable for a person of her intellect, warmth, and honour. If I had a son, I would introduce them, but-”

“Don’t ask mine. They’re either married, in the forces, or a priest.” He’s got no idea why Allard became a preacher. Some kids rebel in the strangest of ways. Probably got hold of a bottle of communion wine, got drunk, and ended up ordained by accident. “Anyway, it’s not our choice to make, is it? If she likes him, then she decides. She did turn him down, but he was being a prize dickhead back then, and he’s mellowed a bit. How’d you know he’s in love with her?”

“I was in his bedroom and he-”

Davos grins, dimple dancing in his cheek, as Stannis turns scarlet.

“Were you, now?”

“Not like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“I was threatening him.”

“Stannis, how many times have I said to try being nice to people, rather than being a bastard?”

At least the man has the grace to look slightly ashamed, even if his defenses rise quicker than an overly-excitable Hot Pie souffle. “It’s Lannister. He drives everyone to distraction.”

Davos shakes his head, reaches over, and kisses that narrow-lipped stubborn mouth. For a moment he can almost hear Stannis’ thoughts. _This is public. We’re in public. People might see. I’m kissing Davos in a minibus at the rugby club. Where people are. This is teenage behaviour, not for two men in middle age. They’ll laugh. They’ll mock. They might see us kissing, and there will be comments if they do-_

“Stop thinking,” he orders, lips loving. Stubble scritches his cheekbone as Davos almost nuzzles into the other man, and he’s always liked that scratch. Not pain, just a warmth that is all Stannis, that reminds him constantly who he is kissing, or licking, or doing many things to that stay in his head, or on that laptop where all those ideas live, neatly colour coded and sorted into genre.

“We’re in a carpark, Davos.”

“I love you.”

Stannis considers, and he watches the dark stormy blue eyes sharpen for a moment before the raging tempest - the man is like the sea, ebb and flow, which is why Davos is absolutely mad for the stubborn sod - fades into a warmth that is very rare indeed.

“I must make you aware, Seaworth, that my feelings towards you are, as Captain Wentworth says to Miss Elliott in the novel _Persuasion_ , “most fervent, most undeviating.””

Typical Stannis.

Their make-out session is interrupted by banging on the bonnet of the minibus, wolf-whistling, and as Davos pulls back out of respect for Stannis’ feelings, a long-fingered hand ends up around the back of his head and he is pulled back into the kiss. No. Snogging. No other word for it. Stannis Baratheon, lawyer and team sponsor and all-round hard-headed man, is snogging his face off in front of the team, and it feels like this is how it always should have been, for the past however many years, because it is right.

 

* * *

 

Friday night at _The Mayflower_ is always manic. Shae, who is impressively pregnant and still squeezing herself into those tight little skirts that drive Tyrion mad, is raging at him with the burning passion of a woman scorned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t care. Go away. Piss off. Die.”

“I was drunk.”

“Jump off a cliff.”

“Shae, come on!”

“I get more love and attention from your brother. Why don’t you go and fuck Varys?”

The arguments have worsened the larger Shae has grown. She swings between trying to kill him, crying in the toilet, eating everything in their flat just to spite him, and telling him that she loves him so very much.

Maybe he has been a bit of a shit? Probably, to be honest. Just that this is all really real. Everything is very much real, especially now the nursery is finished. He went with what Shae wanted, and the theme is the sea; all Lorathi have affinity with water, considering they live on islands. He paid for Arya Stark to come and paint the full wall mural, and it is brilliant; no cartoonish theme, but almost like looking in an encyclopaedia. Colourful fish swim, coral banks stand bright. She used texture to build up the pattern, and sometimes, when he can face going into a room that is now basically an aquarium because it reminds him that, oh shit, he’s going to be a father really very soon indeed, and that is terrifying, he runs his fingers over the walls and feels the dips and bumps in the paint.

He’s not ready to be a father, and the evidence of their breeding drives him to drink, Varys, and avoiding his missus. Selfish, yes. Lannisters are, Tyrion reflects as he scratches his face with barely-trembling hands, a desperately selfish race.

“I don’t love Varys, Shae.”

“You don’t love me!” Magnificent, and she is seriously hot with the curves of pregnancy. Which also makes him feel like a shit because maybe he is fetishizing her, so he stays away even more so not to be a pervert, because she’ll not want sex and blowjob time, and that makes Shae think she’s an ugly fat whale who isn’t sexy any more, and…

“I love you.”

“Then why don’t you show it?” The argument has been raging for weeks, months, came to a head when he travelled to the Winterfell game and left her in charge, even with her swollen feet, massive belly, and exhaustion. She’s been justifiably vile ever since. The settee is now his perma-bed, and she wakes him up at 7am with her nesting instinct kicking in hard, wielding the Hoover, and squirting him with child-friendly disinfectant.

“Can we talk about this elsewhere?"

“Oh, are you embarrassed? I fucking hope you are! Sorry, Bump, Mum didn’t mean to swear so much.” She rubs her hand over her stomach, hating dark eyes boring into Tyrion’s, and he can’t stand it any more.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Yes. It is.”

“What can I do to make this better?”

“Piss off and die in a fire.”

“But I love you-”

“Funny way of showing it, Tyrion! You leave me here, all on my own, while you gallivant all over the place with Varys, and have super happy fun time with him, and you never think about what the outcome of it all is, do you? No! You just waltz off, leaving me and Hot Pie to do everything, and he’s upset too, and you’re having an affair, Tyrion! Did you even think that? It might not be dick in arse, sure, but it’s emotional and that’s even worse. I could deal with him sucking you off, or shagging, or whatever, because that’s just physical, but it’s like you’re in love with him. Jaime asked Hot Pie once how he felt he could even compete, and even though it wasn’t to me, I didn’t even know how to answer that. How do I compete when you’re having this ‘thing’ with someone else, who is totally the opposite of me? Tell me, Tyrion, so I can understand why you’re being such a shit about everything? Tell me what I’ve done to deserve this. And if you say it isn’t you, it’s me, I am going to punch you in your smug face!”

“But it isn’t you-”

“Gah!” She swings a fist, and he ducks, neatly. Everyone, even Shae, forgets how short Tyrion really is.

The periphery of his vision suggests that the entire pub is trying to surreptitiously eavesdrop, but are failing at the sneaky part. Davos, thankfully, keeps the bar running whilst they have their domestic in the usual corner. Stannis is wearing the Seaworth leather jacket, and their touching is rather more obvious than it has been up to this point. There has even been a tiny kiss, in public, with Baratheon almost defiantly waiting for someone to make something of the action.

“What can I do? Shae, I want to make it better-” Oh.

Tyrion trails off, holds up a finger, slides off the bar with an ungainly thump and runs to the back room. Up the stairs. Into their flat. It is tastefully decorated, and handsome, though strewn with cardboard boxes that contained various pieces of baby equipment. His blankets are neatly folded across the back of the settee, awaiting his exiled form after closing time.

Into the bedroom. The drawer. Underwear and socks go flying as he digs about, searching.

There.

Got it.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think she needs a hug, Jon?” Indicating Shae, who stalks across the pub, angrily collecting empty glasses.

“Dad, you can’t go around hugging everyone.”

“She looks as if she needs one.” Rhaegar, unhappy at someone being unhappy, sighs. “Poor girl.”

“Maybe later, when she’s a bit calmer?”

“I could show her my duckling videos? They’d cheer anyone up. Especially the one where we put them in the bath for the first time?”

“Daaaad!”

The man smiles, wraps an arm around Jon’s neck, kisses his forehead.

They have been in the pub half an hour, and his father has been approached by no less than five starstruck people, male and female, desperate to get off with him. Rhaegar turns them all down charmingly, explaining that he is very much in love with his partner, but how nice it is to meet them, and that this is his son, Jon, and perhaps they’d like a drink? How his Dad manages to reject others while them feel fantastic at the same time, he doesn’t know, but it has something to do with guilt over accidentally hurting Jon Connington, who was in love with Rhaegar for years, and the whole scandal surrounding his parents, his own birth, and Bobby Baratheon.

“Excuse me?” Someone lurks nervously, a man with bad teeth and bright eyes. “Could I have your autograph, Mr. Targaryen?”

“Of course! Would you like a drink? Jon, can you go and get a drink for our new friend?”

Jon rolls his eyes good naturedly, taking the dragons his father pushes into his hand.

“Is that your boyfriend?” asks the fan, and Jon’s cheeks flame very red. It has been  presumed, several times. Being Targaryen doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re not sleeping with family members, hence having to clarify after the mentioning that the young man he is with is his son. Rhaegar and Dany are the odd ones out in the whole inbred nest of wyrms.

“My son.” Proudly. “My partner is his mother, Lyanna.”

Smooth, Dad. Smooth.

“Oh! You and Lyanna are still together?” The fan seems to tremble, like an over-excited octopus. “That’s soooo romantic. Oh my Gods! Can you make this out to Lem and Edric, please? Edric’ll never believe you were here. Can I take a photo?”

Rhaegar signs a napkin with typical flourish and lets the other take the selfie. “Edric, is that Arthur Dayne’s nephew?”

The man known as Lem nods, bashfully, and his teeth really are appalling. “We met at church. We’re both followers of R’hllor.”

“Give him my best regards, and if you can, remember me to Arthur?”

Lem throws a salute, beaming, before retreating. He waves at Beric Dondarrion, who raises his pint.

“He forgot his drink,” Jon points out, settling back down. 

“You have it.” A pale hand ruffles his dark curls for the umpteenth time that evening. “I really should come and visit you more often, Jonny. Everyone here is lovely, I forgot how nice King’s Landing can be. Maybe I’ll do some singing gigs, like I used to do, when I was at university?”

Of course, being Rhaegar Targaryen, the singing gigs let to a hardcore following of fans, and elegant ballads about love and loss, with dragon-themed undertones. It led to a recording career, a platinum album, and too many people dyeing their hair silver and trying to be wan, interesting, and slightly Kate Bush around the edges.

Jon finds himself raiding his Dad’s wardrobe and stealing his black 80’s proto-goth clothing half the time, and, of course, Rhaegar lets him. Anything for his boy.

 

* * *

 

“Who was that?” Ramsay considers the man with the hideous teeth and wonders if he needs to stab him. He looks entirely too cheerful, and that, in itself, is suspicious.

“He’s one of the congregation.” They are in the tiny corner booth, the one where the benches are 90 degrees to each other, knees banging together. Clegane and the Stark redhead are eating; every so often she offers her fork to him, and he takes the bite from the tines with an embarrassed but sickeningly sweet expression that he seems to think only Sansa can see, unaware that he’s broadcasting his softness to the entire bar. Stupid bastard. Ramsay still hates the man, on principle, even if they have some things in common; a love of MMA and boxing, and Clegane likes weapons. They have slanging matches over daggers and razors versus swords and axes.

Tormund is texting some girl called Jeyne Poole, sitting on a bar stool, downing pints, and grinning to himself as he does, who Sansa is close to. It doesn’t explain why a best friend would inflict Giantsbane on her. Perhaps Stark is a bitch after all? Bitch bitch, not Dondarrion style bitch. She’s very much in charge when it comes to Clegane.

Apparently Jeyne is pretty in gamine sort of way, with big brown eyes and a pixie crop. Beric keeps teasing Tormund about ‘manic pixie dream girls,’ and Ramsay, who is the nearest they have to an internet addict, mostly because he is obsessed with the dark web and spends most of his time telling twelve year olds on _Call of Duty_ that he’s fucked their Mums and telling hitmen that they’re all shit, hasn’t got the motivation to tell Dondarrion that he is using the term incorrectly.

Beric is helping getting him set up with a YouTube channel about gaming. He’s going to stream shit, and hopefully make some sort of living that’ll piss Roose off. Dondarrion says he’ll appeal to a certain type of gamer, and that he should wear his leather trousers, boots, and a really tight t-shirt. He’s not sure if that’s because the internet needs to see him in leather, or because Beric just wants some wank fodder for quiet times at work. What else gets his bitch off apart from being beaten senseless? Ramsay swearing at inanimate objects, punching things, and being an obnoxious little shit, apparently. Oh, and the leather, boots, and tight t-shirt thing. That helps.

Gaming sessions lead to other sessions which lead to loads of bacon sandwiches and gallons of coffee.

“Fucking weird fire worshippers.”

“Maybe I’ll convert you one day, Ramsay, to the loving arms of the Lord of Light?”

He digs his nails into Beric’s thigh, fondly, and the other smiles, all zen and relaxed. Pain is a drug, a euphoria, even tiny little suggestions.

“How are you an almost priest by day and my bitch by night?”

“Compartmentalising of life goals can be very beneficial. Allowing certain things to bleed into my work can lessen my ability to do my job. I consider what is important in the moment, and I devote myself to completion of the task in hand. If I don’t concentrate and my mind wanders, I cannot serve my master in the manner He sees fit.” The ambivalence of who exactly that master is is telling. Ramsay and his Fire God are on equal footing, just at different times of day, and for very different purposes.

“Like when you’re trying to, I dunno, burn shit or whatever you do in your little temple, and you’re thinking about being tied naked to the wall and being whipped with a phone charger?”

“You and technology.” A kiss to his temple, and Ramsay allows it. “You’re a geek, Ramsay.”

“Soon to be a fucking internet phenomenon.”

“They will be making memes of you.”

“For the love of that fiery fucking God of yours, it’s pronounced meme. Wanker.”

Beric snorts, grinning, obviously trying to wind Ramsay up. It works. Dondarrion always, on purpose, mispronounces common internet terms. Gif is a favourite, and he ends up chanting it goadingly during dungeon time, just to get the best performance out of Bolton.

And people call Ramsay a manipulative psychotic bastard?

“Gif,” whispers Beric, against the shell of his ear. “Gif.Gif. Meme.” He pauses, and the grin widens, and he goes for the kill. “Linux.”

“Home. Now.” He growls, twists, drags the man into some sort of marsupial-style tangle of limbs and teeth. “You fucking tease.”

“Oh, Ramsay. How easy you are to wind up. So tiny. So angry. You are a honey badger, aren’t you?”

He growls, slithers off Beric, and drags him from the pub, all the time snarling exactly what is going to happen, with what, where, and for how long. On the way home, like usual, they stop off at Tesco for bacon, ice cream, and the good coffee for the morning after the night before.

 

* * *

 

She is mobbed the instant she enters the pub; players race over, babbling, asking if she’s okay, how’s her head, that her facial bruising is impressive even if it is starting to finally calm down, and then she is handed about ten diet bitter lemons, hugs, some kisses, and a slap on the arse by Theon.

Jaime laughs, doesn’t leave her side, and promises to help her drink them because Brienne doesn’t have them heart to stop her boys when they are trying to show their appreciation for their injured and fallen leader.

Tormund wraps her into a very tight, very bear-like hug. It feels just like being embraced by a very good friend indeed. And a bear. Both. At the same time. Something about the man makes her feel quite safe. Possibly because he is one of only a few people on the team who is near her in height, or because they’ve reached an understanding about what they mean to each other.

When she was four years old, and it wasn’t Selwyn’s fault because the road was foggy and the other car took the bend on the wrong side of the road far too quickly for the weather conditions, Brienne lost her big brother in a crash. It left scars, mentally, that took a long time to heal, and the physical damage on her cheek and throat still lies in a silvered red of tissue. It has faded, all of it; the hurt, the almost betrayal, the guilt of her being alive and Galladon being dead, the white-hot anger at the other driver who was drunk and uninjured because didn’t that always happen? All has faded into a jumble of memory, that sometimes reappears, but less every passing year.

She isn’t replacing Galladon. She isn’t spurning the memory of her seven year old brother, who loved knights and swords, and wildlife, and rugby. She can just see little parts of him in Tormund, and that gives her a strange security. If he had lived, Galladon and the Wildling would have been friends. Galladon would be a Bro.

She agrees, mid-hug, to go out drinking with them, as long as she can stick to non-alcoholic low-cal lager, and when she does, Brienne will ask them to toast Galladon.

Finally she is deposited at the bar as Tormund gets a text, says something about a Jeyne, and starts poking at the screen with his large fingers.

_The Mayflower_ heaves, the usual madness of a Friday night, with the usual faces. Players and their respective loved ones, and a few tourists that seem to wander in, wide-eyed, because of the black and white timbered quaintness. They stay for the food and the good beer that Davos insists they serve, and go and tell their upmarket friends about the darling little public house in Flea Bottom that has the best food in King’s Landing, really, such a hidden gem. The tourists never claim tables that aren’t theirs; regulars quietly shepherd them to lesser seats, reserve the usual booths and chairs for those who always sit there.

“I’d get you a drink, wench, but-” Jaime gestures at the pile of glassware. “Cheap date that you are.” Brienne rolls her eyes. “Sober as a judge. Having grown up knowing several judges, that is indeed a stupid statement. They all drank like fishes.”

“What’re you having?”

“Bloody hell, is this what Martell said when he told me I was the pretty princess?”

Luckily Brienne manages to swallow her mouthful of bitter lemon just before she spits it across the bartop. “Pardon?”

“Apparently I am the princess and you are the honourable knight.”

“You’d look better than me in a dress.”

“Apart from that dress you wore to the engagement. Remind me to thank Varys for that, and you for baring those legs of yours. Obviously I see them on a weekly basis, wench, but in long rugby socks and shorts, covered in mud. Far more different when they’re out on show.” He pokes her ribs very lightly with a finger, and even that tiny touch sends a warmth settling in her belly, low and coiling.

“If you like it that much,” she sniffs, “then I’m sure you can borrow it whenever you need.”

Jaime is the sort of man who, if faced with wearing a dress, would embrace it. He’d do it properly. He’d work it, as Hot Pie says. Full face makeup, hair teased to perfection, and considering his is longer than hers, he’d look more feminine. He showed he can walk in heels.

“Earth to wench. Come in, wench.”

“Sorry.”

“You were thinking about me in a dress.” A knowing grin turns him to golden god-status.

Jaime is a God. Physically, at least. He glows in rooms, makes darkness less thick and cloying. No one is as striking as him, apart from perhaps Rhaegar, and they are like the sun and the moon. Gold and silver. Night and day. Targaryen handsomeness is cooler, chillier, brittle. Jaime’s looks are warmer, less icy precision. He is, after all, the physical embodiment of all those tales of knightly derring-do that she used to read as a young girl, the ones where she thought the princesses were ridiculous and the soldiers and warriors were far more interesting.

So Selwyn let her have fencing lessons, and Brienne was damned good, but the rugby infected her. Sometimes, no, more often than that, she uses a broom handle and goes through half-forgotten stances. Beric told her that Ramsay told him to tell her that they have videos on YouTube that explain, in detail, how to broadsword fight.

Okay, Brienne looks like a right prat in the middle of her living room, and the space is a bit tight, and she is wielding five foot of wooden pole rather than a proper blade, and she did take out the light fitting twice, and almost impaled the partition wall between there and the kitchen, but it helps her relax after a long day of coaching, training, and dealing with her team.

Jaime has been bothering her for six days straight, and she’s realised that she really does like him, quite a lot.

 

* * *

 

“Shae.”

“You.”

Varys settles before her, and Davos brings a gin over, darling man that he is.

“We need to end this. Before you spawn.”

“You’re in love with my boyfriend.”

He sighs, delicately. “My dear, I’ve been in love with Tyrion for years. Terribly difficult not to be, with the vitality, intelligence, and sheer magnetism he possesses. Yet, have you noticed you are the one he’s knocked up, you’re the one he’s living with, you’re the one he comes home to? He has no interest in me, darling girl. My genitalia are not optimal. I do not posses breasts, though if I eat any more of Hot Pie’s desserts I will grow them - really, the amount of sugar that man uses? Cardiac arrest, thy name is pudding. I am not a woman.” He pauses, dips his finger in gin, draws the tip around the rim of the glass to make it sing. “I am not you.”

“He spends his life with you. He goes away with you. He takes you out. He laughs with you. He enjoys your company. He is himself with you! All I get is him not being there when I need him the most, Varys. It isn’t your fault, even if I really loathe you right at this moment, because it’s Tyrion’s choice to be with you rather than me.” She looks tired, fragile, and guilt settles firmly upon Varys’ broad plump shoulders. Poor girl.

“I know why he’s doing it. I’ve told him why he’s doing it.”

“Then why can’t someone tell me?”

Varys reaches out, takes her hand in his own. For someone so gorgeous, Shae has the most hideous nail varnish on. Ugh. He makes a conscious decision to do a pre-birth manicure.

“Having a baby is a very large thing, dearest. Having come from a line of Lannisters, with a hideous father, Tyrion is, at heart, terrified he’ll screw up. He also finds you hideously attractive at the moment, and feels guilty because you’re so uncomfortable and fed-up of being pregnant, so doesn’t want to ask for anything physical because it could upset you.”

“I look like a manatee,” she gripes. “I am fat, and hideous-”

“No. You are ripe, full of promise, like an ancient fertility goddess. You embody the physicality of the human race, with curves and dips, and have you seen how incredible your skin is? Hot Pie rants about your skin, he’s awfully jealous, you know? So’m I. Gods, the amount I spend on facial massage and you just glow like some supermodel of skincare. I bet you don’t even moisturise every night, damn you. You’re gorgeous, Shae. Unfairly so. I hate you for it.”

A tiny, unwilling smile.

“Tyrion is, as we both are very aware of, a selfish person. He’s had to be, given his awful family. And yes, I adore the man. We’d make the worst couple, we’d die of cirrhosis of the liver far too young, and we’re not particularly each other’s types, but I love him very deeply indeed. This is why I’m here, darling girl. I refuse to allow him to bugger up his life any longer. I refuse to be the one he comes running to when he’s being a coward about you, and the bump, and the dawning of a bright and wonderful new age of being a father.”

Shae watches him, her fingers tightening. “Hot Pie yelled at you, didn’t he?”

“That gorgeous beast of a chef is far too good for me.”

“He did that fierce thing at you, didn’t he?” The shadow of her smile broadens, shows perfect white Lorathi teeth. “He’s my best friend. He said he’d be at the birth if I dumped Tyrion, and he’d be there to co-parent when or if I needed."

“Terrifyingly shouty. He also refused to make any choux buns until I contemplated my actions.”

Hot Pie, for someone who is a bit of a sex-mad fluffy meringue sort of man, can be seriously intimidating. He is big enough and loud enough, and seriously camp enough, to override most people, including Varys. Not many people can do that. It’s why Varys thinks he is a marvel of nature.

“I’m not telling you to absolve Tyrion at all, Shae. I’m just saying that my part in avoidance of reality is, now, at an end. Drinkies will be here. No dinner dates, no trips to the rugby without you and spawn in attendance-”

“Spawn likes you,” she says, quite suddenly. “Your voice soothes him. Hot Pie’s does, as well.”

“I’m hideous with children. Awful. Horrid little beasts, throwing up, crying, being the centre of attention constantly.” Varys pauses, before he grins, very genuinely. “Oh Gods, I’ve just described Tyrion.”

 

* * *

 

Jaime manages to get his arm around Brienne’s waist quite surreptitiously, to the point where she either doesn’t notice - probably not true, because it is, indeed, an arm around her - or she doesn’t mind.

They’re taking things very slowly.

Very slowly indeed.

Even so, he has stayed over at her pin-neat and minimalist flat three out of six nights, which he knows, even if he is shit at maths, is a fifty percent success rate. No sex, no kissing. A little holding hands as they watch the Winterfell match for reviewing purposes, and bickering when little on the TV Karstark kicks little on the TV Brienne in the head.

She even allowed him to order a take away, though Jaime compromised the next night with this vegetarian low-cal and high protein thing that tasted a bit like the inside of his sock drawer, though with less flavour or texture. He shoved it down, said it wasn’t bad, asked if they could have some meat, and grinned as Brienne threw a small cushion at his head.

They sleep on the same bed, separate duvets. Brienne has this ridiculously large bed because, after all, the wench is ridiculously large, and the settee wasn’t long enough for him to stretch out on comfortably. She snores like a bulldog because of her broken nose, and when Jaime wakes up, she’s usually out of bed, doing improving things like stretches, or pouring over the personnel folders and updating each player with hand-written match reports, or watching Youtube videos while wielding a broomstick like a two-handed sword.

“You need a proper training sword, by the way. I’ll get you one.”

“I’ll smash the light fitting with one.”

“Nope. I’m getting you a sword. A nice one, one of those foam ones if you’re that bothered with breaking stuff.”

She laughs, short and barking, and Jaime loves her laugh. “That’s almost romantic.”

“Brienne, you inspire me to be a better, less screwed-up individual. The least I can do is buy you something you’ll enjoy using. You can even hit me with it without breaking me.”

“I’ll come with you, when you choose it. It needs to be the right length, and I’m so tall that I’ll need to try it out before we commit.”

“You’ll look good with it. You can protect me, honourable yet stubbornly frustrating knight wench that you are.”

Brienne looks down at him, damn those few inches, through her white-sand eyelashes. How did he ever think she was ugly? Part of him cringes internally at the endless litany of insults he threw, that the woman fielded on those broad marvellously freckled shoulders. Seriously, how much of a shit was he? An enormous turd, definitely. He apologised on the car journey home from Winterfell, since he didn’t have anything else to lose, and Brienne accepted it with her usual polite grace.

She is beautiful, and unconventional. Different.

The kiss is so tiny, and so soft, an almost spiderweb of a caress. Just to his temple, where, on Brienne, the bruising radiates from. Her mouth is warm, lips a little rough and wide, and very sweetly tender.

It is the best kiss that Jaime has ever had.

Gods knows what’ll happen when she kisses on on the mouth. Or other parts of his anatomy. When tongues get involved.

No. Jaime is aware that he will die when Brienne kisses him properly, with a massive smug grin on his face.

 

* * *

 

“Shae?”

The pub pauses once more, more obvious now as most are well into the drinking. He is aware that Jaime and Brienne are at the bar, and that they are finally touching - thank fuck for that, and he’s won that bet with the rugby lads who, because Bronn is a beautiful bastard and likes setting up sweepstakes, have been wagering on the outcome for months - and that’s great.

“Tyrion.” His woman stares deathrays at him.

Varys gives him a very tiny nod.

Deep breath. Shoulders back. Exude manly confidence, Tyrion.

He climbs onto the bar, using his stepladder that lives there for that exact purpose.

“Shae.”

She crosses her arms over her belly, and her tits look amazing.

“I have been a colossal cunt for the last, well, it’s been a long time. Since we found out about the baby. Our baby.” Still terrifying, that thought. Tyrion has never been very good at adulting, preferring to hide behind sarcasm and drink to mask that he’s got no idea what he’s doing.

Then he found out that most people are in the same situation, and travel through life making it up as they go along.

He isn’t screwed up, he isn’t weird for these thoughts, he isn’t twisted. Tyrion is normal. Which he finds a little odd, but he’ll go with it. After all, he didn’t shag his sister. Whatever happens in the world, he can always be sure that Jaime is more screwed-up than he is. A nice little anchor, at the expense, possibly, of his brother, but any little helps.

Another deep breath.

The great thing about having a barrel chest is that he can project his voice to the back of the pub without shouting. Even Sam, who is in wedding conference mode with Gilly and the girls, stops planning long enough to listen.

“I have been an absolute shit to you. I’ve neglected you. I’ve left you to deal with all of the pregnancy on your own. I was scared. Scared of what was happening, of the future, of being a father, of having to get off my arse and grow up. However, that is no excuse. I’ve let you down, Shae, and I don’t ever want to let you down ever again. I love you. I know you think you aren’t beautiful and sexy any more, but you are. You’re carrying my baby, and that’s...incredible. Terrifying, yes. Frightening indeed. And your tits-”

Someone giggles, and it is Tormund, grinning from the front row as he filters craft beer through his ginger moustache.

“Ignore what I said about tits, everyone. But they are amazing, you have my word. What I’m trying to say, very badly, is that I love you. I love everything about you. It’s all my fault, and I’ve fucked up. And you don’t have to say yes, I understand if you don’t, but.”

He manages to get to one knee with the most amount of elegance a man with short legs can, pulls out the little leather box from his pocket, and snaps it open with a typical Tyrion flourish.

“I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. Will you marry me?”

Silence.

He can feel the presence of everyone else behind him, willing him and Shae on.

To be honest, he’s had the ring for a while, since before the pregnancy. Tyrion wondered about a Lannister heirloom, but hated the fact that he’d have to ask his father for it, and Tywin would say no, so he almost bought a ruby and had it set into a gold ring. Possibly a little ostentatious, though, given the one he liked could be used as a weapon of mass face punching.

She touches the sea-washed greeny-grey amber stone, runs a finger down the silver band.

Lorathi amber. When Shae smiles, a wetness glazes her eyes.

“I’ll think about it.” Softly. “I can’t say yes right now, Tyr. Not with the last six months or so, not with us being like this.”

“Wear it then, as a promise. On your other hand.”

“My fingers are too fat for it,” she points out. “Pregnancy.”

“I’ll get you a chain then.”

She looks so beautiful, and Tyrion berates himself, little shit that he is. What he could have lost. What he still could.

This is going to be some seriously hard work. The shimmer of warmth in Shae’s expression, the way she unthinkingly rubs Bump, her amazing tits - no, just her. She’s the best thing in his life, and he’s already cut off his father to be with her. Anything else, after disowning Tywin, is far easier.

“Go lie down, I’ll do the bar for you.”

“You can’t reach the pumps,” she points out.

“I have a stepladder and a burning sense of purpose. Go. Shoo. Away with you.”

“You’re still a shit, Tyrion. But I still love you.”

The first person who orders, who is Bronn being a bastard as always, demands a cheap whisky from one of the more difficult to reach optics.

Tyrion throws a lemon at the man’s head, and it collides with a resoundingly satisfying squishy thunk.

 

* * *

 

“Shae is very sensible.” Brienne agrees with the decision, finishes her fourth diet bitter lemon. They keep materialising on the bar, though no one seems to bring them over. Davos is obviously a bartending ninja. “I’d have said I’d think about it, as well.”

“She’s a good woman. Me and Hot Pie’ve been looking after her, since I’m one of the people whose been around a pregnant woman, and he’s one of the Sisterhood. He keeps singing Aretha when he feels betrayed by the Man.”

“You’re a good man, even if you pretend you’re not.” To Jaime’s utter delight, Brienne’s arm ends up around his waist, their hips pressed close, shoulders bumping with each breath.

“You’d hate a ring, wouldn’t you?”

She pauses, looks at him almost seriously, before Jaime grins to break the slightly film of tension. Brienne’s smile makes her over-wide mouth and terrible teeth lovely to him.

Because, frankly, she is lovely.

“Degloving.” The fear of all sportsmen.

“Good point.”

“I can’t wear it if I’m playing, and I practice every day, so there’d be no point. I don’t really wear jewellery, I’ve not even got pierced ears; I have to wear those clip on ones.”

“If I was going to marry you, I’d get you something far better than a ring.” Jaime takes a chance, tilts his head so his cheek finds Brienne’s muscled shoulder. “You’re far too interesting for mere bling, wench. If I was going to marry you-” and he sneaks a kiss to her strong jawline, just below the ear, and the satisfaction at her sharp breath in is bloody wonderful.

“Yes?” A little breathy as his mouth brushes once more. Shivering. Brienne is shivering.

“I’d buy my knight in shining armour the finest of swords. The sort of legendary weapon that passes from generation to generation, like Tywin’s Valyrian blades. One with a name.”

Her arm tightens, her expression softens into something dreamily unreadable.

“Oathkeeper.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve always wanted to call my sword ‘Oathkeeper.’”

“Suits you, honourable wench that you are.”

“Stop calling me wench.” Fondly. Her voice is warm, and husky. This comes up in conversation, whether in person, on the phone, or via text, several times a day.

“Wench.”

“My name,” she murmurs, before her lovely plush wide mouth, made for kissing, meets his own, finally, after far too long, and why did he act like a complete shit about asking her out, they could have been together properly for ages now, “is Brienne.”

"Don't you think that Brienne Lannister as a certain style to it?" he murmurs against her mouth.

"Aren't the princesses supposed to take the knight's name?" Pale eyebrows dance. "Jaime Tarth sounds better."  
  
"I get to wear the dress?"

She grins, sunny and bright like a summer evening, and Jaime catches her around the waist, kissing her properly.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Thank you so much for reading - I appreciate all your encouragement, and lovely comments, here as well as over on Tumblr. If you want to find me there, I'm under this username. Always looking for more lovely friends, after all.
> 
> Just that, really. Thank you, and I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.


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